Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts

Monday, 29 April 2013

Y is for....


1) You, the Reader. Thank you for coming by, I hope you have liked what you have found here. I also hope that you will try my novel “Despite the Angels”, and pass on the word about it to your friends! You, as the reader, are the most important person in this equation - would I write if I thought no-one would ever read it? Probably not....The novelist Joseph O’Connor, writing in the forward to “Circle Time”, the 2011 anthology of work by the Dalkey Writers’Workshop, put it eloquently: “A story, like a song, takes its chances alone. What the reader does is the truly creative part of the relationship, for in the unique and intimate courtship opened out by the book, the little black ink-stains called ‘words’ and ‘sentences’ are blazed into life by imagination.”

2) Yummy! All my life I have been interested in good food, a trait I have passed on to my daughter, who with her friend, has a lovely blog all about food. (check out Gastronomic Girls) A few foods start with Y - yoghurt, yam, yakitori, and this last one brings me to one of my favourite restaurants in Dublin, Yamamori. I’m particularly a fan of sashimi.

3) Yellow Dock is the common name for the remedy Rumex, which is good for those  coughs which are caused by a tickle at the base of the throat.

Wednesday, 4 July 2012

Writing at the Bar

No WiFi at home, so must go to local bar to connect. This is today's contribution to 'Nulle Part Ailleurs' staying open for us! (as well as drinks) They are lovely here, in Trémolat, Périgord.
Forgot to add this photo to post below....

On Holidays...

As I'm on holidays, I thought I'd put up a poem I wrote based on an experience on last year's hols, in the same place. In this part of France, the towns and villages hold 'Marchés Nocturnes' or 'Soirées Gourmandes' - where they basically turn the town square into a food hall. Delicious food is available to buy, and there is usually some sort of entertainment. Last year, at 'Creysse', where they do a fish-based marché, they had musicians. And I watched, and the writer in me produced this. This poem was published in 'Circle Time', the Dalkey Writers Workshop anthology, last autumn.
 Sorry, nothing about past lives this time, but an enormous celebration of the lives we are living now...

Marché Nocturne

Serried poplars, pinkening sky
garlic and mussel scented air
guitar and accordion set up their cry-
it is time to dance at the night fair.

Plump and bald answer the call,
wives in hand, remembering when
these were sylph-girls at a Hunters' Ball:
thought they would always be young men.

Ancient lessons guide them round
on easy moving feet
that music such a familiar sound,
a happy lilting beat.

They look down with loving eyes,
smile through all the years
connectedness that never dies
enhanced by local wine, or beers

which ooze out of a million pores
and stain two dozen shirts,
wives fatter now than years before
and wearing longer skirts

but in his eyes the very girl
he held so close back then,
this gentle move the self-same whirl:
old bodies still contain young men.