March is a good month to begin anew. It’s been a long time since I’ve interviewed other poets and writers, and I’m kicking off the season with today’s interview below, with a prolific writer. There’s an American is saying that suits her well: Margaret Kiernan has her fingers in many pies.
Margaret Kiernan is an Irish author and a Best of The Net Nominee for Creative Non-Fiction Award, 2021 and, 2022, and Poetry and Essay, 2023. She writes fiction, essays, memoirs, flash, and poetry. She has had poetry and prose published in hardback, in e-books, online, and in literary journals and magazines, on four continents. She also has multiple short stories and poems in anthology collections and cultural publications. Margaret has four grown-up children and lives in Westmeath with her dog Molly. She paints in watercolors and acrylics and has the following interests: democracy, nature and wildlife, philosophy, astrology, gardening, music, spirituality, reading, archaeology, and historical heritage. In 2024, she was awarded the Ambassadors role for Westmeath Libraries at Creative Ireland.
“Red-hot Gauge”, published by Mary Jane Grandinetti, editor at Muse-Pie Press and the Shot Glass Journal. USA. http://www.musepiepress.com
I was driving back from a poetry workshop in Carrick on Shannon on a gorgeous autumn afternoon, in October 2023. It was unseasonably sunny and warm. I pulled off the road onto a layby, and got out of the car to walk amongst heather and wild grasses. There were crabapple trees in the landscape. It reminded me of a time when I regularly cooked with those apples, and stored jam and jelly in mason jars.
What got you into writing in this genre?
Initially, I wrote short stories. I arrived at poetry when I reached for something between emotions and thoughts. It was a surprise to me when I wrote poetry but not to others who knew me. They stated that I spoke in poetry.
How long have you been writing? Do you do something else for work?
I can remember writing at age eleven in the attic of my home. I wrote a book of sorts which got lost after I moved away to the city. I went up to the attic for space to be with myself, I was one of a large family. The attic had only gable windows to see from. I took the family transistor radio up there too; it was a blue color and was a Bush brand. I listened to Eartha Kitt; I remember hearing her speak about growing up in mud-filled places, and how she played in mud, stuck straws into her bellybutton. I listened to Daniel Barenboim, pianist, and conductor, who was then at the start of his career as a conductor with the orchestra of St Martin in The Fields, England. Later, he was based in Berlin, at The State Opera. He was a peace activist and had been born in Israel.
I was deeply affected by the world economic downturn in 2009 when my job was made redundant. I was a professional advocate for social inclusion and diversity. It was then that I made up my mind to allow myself the time to write creatively, to stop resisting the pull. I have the role of being an ambassador for literature and reading with two organizations. I continue to be involved in public policy and social justice at county level and in a pro bono capacity.
What is the writing process like for you? What is your writing day like?
I am disciplined with my writing life. I start at seven am, and it ends when I stop for lunch at one o’clock, Monday to Friday. Unless I’ve meetings I rarely adjust this schedule. I read a lot at weekends. In the afternoon, I take my dog Molly out to walk in the countryside.
What have been the biggest influences on your writing?
I find that hard to answer. I have been a keen reader since early childhood. My mother enrolled me in the adult sector in the library at eight years old, I had read the entire children’s section. I wish I had recorded all the titles of books read; it would be an amazing tally. Ireland has a strong standing in literature, and, I would have benefited from that. I also love American literature. Hemmingway, Williams, Bishop, et al.
What is one of your favorite books (other than your own book, and why?
There are many to mention but I will settle for “A Thousand Splendid Suns” by Khaled Hosseini, published by http://www.bloomsbury.com. It is a book about many things but in the end, it is about endurance, in a country, in family and friendships, in women’s strength to endure, and in love and heroism to survive. A great storytelling by the author.
How do you think your writing has evolved?
I believe that if you keep doing something, stick at it, you get better at it. I hope I do.
It is always a fine line to believe in one’s own writing. Objectivity can be lost. The pull to keep doing it is what matters
What supports your writing, and how do you come to your final product?
Having work accepted and published by editors in literary magazines and journals is helpful. Being in a poetry group or collective is helpful too for feedback and support. I miss that with my prose. The final product arrives at an end after much reviewing and editing. Sometimes, I am pleased that it is done enough and, other pieces I think are never in that place.
How do you market your work?
Not at all. I am trying to find help to make a book of my poems. I have approximately two hundred and fifty of which one hundred and forty have been published.
My short stories are piling up, I write flash too, and I seem to have moved into a futuristic/ space with eco vibes, perhaps it is the times I live in.
What piece of your own work are you most pleased with”?
I couldn’t say at all. Every word, perhaps. That it exists at all is my blessing.
The past winter was the first Christmas Celebration with a family gathering in four years. Covid was receded, but people need to be careful still especially older people. The emerging world was no longer the same. Dinah saw her grandchildren rarely now, as one of them always had coughs, colds and drippy noses. They were young enough to sneeze and cough without thinking of germs flying in all directions. Dinah’s doctor had cautioned her to be careful.
She’d grown isolated. She took her half-hour walk each day to keep her bones from stiffening up, but avoided crowded areas. The family Christmas gathering had been her exception, and it was grand to be in a room with people, everyone exchanging gifts and songs before dinner.
Her favorite gift was a boxed daily calendar from the National Museum of Art. Each day had a photograph of artwork, and on the back, there was a prompt, something to write about, day by day. She kept the calendar on her kitchen table and began the month of January, looking at the day’s artwork. Dinah wrote her morning thoughts, perhaps what she’d done the day before, or planned to. Sometimes it was a short sentence, other times a cramped paragraph.
In Late February, Dinah read through each day she had written. She realized that most of those days were spent alone. She went to church on Sundays, sometimes to confession on Saturdays, and to the grocery store. When had the grocery store become a high point of her week? When had she last gone inside a public without looking like the Lone Ranger, masked up but with the mask covering her mouth, rather than eyes? Tonta she thought, Fool. Life is passing me by, and there isn’t enough to squander.
They’d be a change. She looked at bus routes and at how far she could walk. She got a local culture map and drew a radius, and each day began to walk. The first day was to visit the bones of St. Valentine at a church in Dublin. The next day took her for a walk along the canal, then past a bookshop that drew her in. It was morning, and not many people were out. Inside Dinah followed the books to the back wall and found a back door that opened to a shared yard. Rain dripped off the rooflines. She moved across the yard to a sign in a small bakery window, CAKE, it said. She went in, ordered cake and tea, and sat a few tables away from a couple that spoke German. The cakes were tall, coffee steamed.
Chester Beatty Library, Dublin
Life was sweeter. From this day forward, the Daily Diary described newly found corners of Dublin, bowls of soup, and slices of carrot cake. Some mornings there was blood pudding at a breakfast cafe or a hidden cheese shop. Other times it was a newly-found statue in the corner of a park. Once she went into a fancy shop and tried on dresses she had no intention of buying. Dinah walked a new route each day, sometimes going into bookshops, or dropping into a museum. Yesterday she’d been up to the Chester Beatty and had lunch at the Silk Road Cafe. Then she’d taken the elevator to the roof and looked down at the chimneys of Dublin. She took in an afternoon concert at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Her boxed calendar diary was fuller, with bright moments written. Life was looking up, painting by painting, day by day. Alone didn’t mean lonely anymore.
Anna and Lefty have a house two miles up this dirt road, except it’s been just a year since Anna has passed on. Anna was stronger than any Roman soldier from ancient times, thoughtful, practical, and inventive. She was a gardener who grew pears, peaches, and pumpkins of immense proportions. We keep an eye out for each other while we still maintain the privacy of those who live on a skinny dirt road in a forest. This poem is for Anna and her family. Also for friends– we miss her.
I was told by a subscriber that she didn’t realize that if she clicked on the email version it would open and connect, showing her the photos. If you have also been in this situation, click on the title of your email, and it should open to the website, giving a better reading experience.
Anna
The dirt road runs through the forest,
tracing Moss Brook and two swamps.
Our handful of homes tuck into six miles
of Brush Mountain where we live
on the edge of wildness.
We came here with young children ,watched
them grow and leave. We shared potlucks,
helped each other cut down trees,
repaired fencing, and pruned back gardens.
We called each other to ask do you have electricity,
can you use some apples? In summer we met
for potlucks suppers at Laurel Lake. We were all
more comfortable conversing with tall white pines,
or singing to the moon, rather than being with other people.
It’s almost early spring. Next month frogs will wake,
We’ve begun the Season of Saint’s Days, kicking off with Bridget, both Saint, and Goddess, a miracle worker that saves souls, looks over our homes and hearths, has the writer’s back, and can be counted on in both good and difficult times. Brigit is in the wells, in the air, in the cloth of her ever-expanding cloak.
In Dublin, you can visit Whitefriar’s Church, where my friend Davey took me one afternoon. You’ll find the story and the bones and blood of Saint Valentine there, now kept in an exalted place.
Saint Patrick’s Day is coming soon. There’s no need to go into the symbol of the shamrock, and the importance of Patrick to the Irish diaspora spread around the world. This often translates to where the largest parade can be found. In Dublin there is the cathedral. You could have knocked me over with a feather the first time I went to mass there and found it wasn’t mass at all. When I you very young and went to the Methodist Church with my Methodist half of the family, my mum used to tell me to be careful that the roof didn’t fall onto my head. Back then, Catholics weren’t supposed to enter other types of churches.
Davey also took me to visit St. Savior’s Church, not far from the Writer’s Center. , Dublin Northside. There are masses said in five languages there, and wondrous statues of great age. The church has been here since 1224. John, who ran the bookshop there, allowed me to have a short prayer with a sacred book held over me. This was a special gift from him and a special type of blessing. As simple as it was, it was profound.
Here in the US, in my own small town of 800 people, I went to the only church in town, a congregational, for a service when someone died. The minister leading us was a good fellow, newly living in town after retirement. He welcomed everyone to have communion. Can you imagine! Forgiven without any confession, aside to your own quiet self as you waited.
I wasn’t struck by lightning when I partook. At the end of the service, he offered a special blessing for anyone who wanted to get in line & pass in front of him; He murmured some indecipherable words, perhaps in Latin, and tapped individuals on the head. This reminded me of a blessing I’d had from an Indian swami, so I got in line. The swami had kept batting me on the head, expecting some great change that didn’t place, but this minister only needed one tap.
When he spoke the words and tapped my head, there was a brief small light around me, my heart felt comfort. My spirit grew softer, kinder, larger, or so it seemed. I felt —love.
Afterward, I asked him just what he did. He explained he’d been to Harvard Divinity School, and this was a little used or even thought simple blessing.
I wonder, what do all the splinters and relics of saint’s bones do to help us, to help our world? Can we step higher on the stairs to heaven if we only think of ourselves, or is it implicit that our hearts and prayers are open, that we know we are all in this together?
Last year I sat down to write a romantic sort of poem. Isn’t a nice bowl of homemade chicken soup sort of romantic, along with a homemade Valentine’s card? I like to make my soup from scratch, slowly simmering bones to make the broth. I also want to give a shout to my friend Davey from Dublin, who took me to see St. Valentine’s bones at the Whitefriar Church. Quite an adventure!
Dear Readers, I am sharing about Brigit from last year with you, as I couldn’t top this. I’ve also got a podcast for you to listen to below, should you like to hear a few poems and an interview. The stained glass below was done by Harry Clarke and is in Bewley Tea Shop on Grafton Street in Dublin.
The prospect of fishbones stuck in my throat, robbing me of the ability to breathe, with the offending bone growing larger by the second.
When I was a young child this vision sent me to church on St. Blaise’s’ Day with great urgency. It sent me into the confession box so that I’d have communion as extra protection, along with Saint Blaise, to protect me from death caused by fishbones stuck in my throat. Dad carried me most of the way to church when I was two and three years old. He explained about Saint Blaise. I remember the candles crossed at my neck as I knelt and breathed in a sigh of relief, sure to be safe for another year. I ate fish with trepidation.
Dombeg Stone Circle, West Cork Ireland
I sat down to write a piece about Brigit, both Goddess and Saint. Brigit has more fine stories and followers than you could shake a stick at and far more than St. Blaise, who turns out to be an Armenian bishop who was martyred, and lived roughly a few hundred years before Saint Brigit was in Ireland as a saint. I find this interesting, as I’m half Irish and half Armenian, and here haven’t I always split the celebrating and thanking between them, always. One bringing hope and protection, the other to guard my Irish throat against the many hidden fish bones lurking in our suppers. This is a link that will take you to information on St. Blaise: https://aleteia.org/2016/02/03/the-real-story-behind-the-churchs-tradition-of-blessing-throats/
For Imbolc, I often enjoy having some seed packets ready for planting. I’ll give the wood stove a good cleaning and set a fine fire it it. I’ll imagine the first stirring of life in the seeds, although it’s too early for planting here. I sit comfort of the fire, feed it birch so it burns brightly, and make a bit of music to honor the woman who crossed over party lines to work both as Goddess and Saint so powerfully. I’ll also remember to light a candle for my cousin Kathleen who recently passed, and who loved this day. This is a link to a bit more information:http://www.angelfire.com/journal/ofapoet/brigid.html
Welcome to my home, hearth, and blog, Brigit. And give my best to St. Blaise as well.
Deep winter slows me down; I begin my day later, spend more time alone and often think back to my childhood. I have memories of this day. My mother’s coat was a warm grey fur, my coat was black velvet. We were at Ferry Way Green Park, in Malden MA, and it was cold. People are ice skating behind us.
Memory
A few years after this picture, Mam & I walked to St. Theresa’s church for First Communion classes. She wasn’t Catholic, and so wasn’t welcome into the church proper.
First Communion Class
We argued because I didn’t want
to wear a hat. I had a new yellow
rain slicker with a hood, like the
ones the American kids wore.
Mama collected her umbrella,
pushed the hat onto my head,
but I took it off and hid it, pulled up
the hood when I walked out behind her.
We walked down Vernal Street
in the rain, took a turn at Sak’s
Drug Store, and walked three blocks
uphill to Saint Teresa’s Church.
Mama was only allowed in the chapel,
not being Catholic. She stayed until I took
off the rain slicker. The nun frowned. Mama
frowned and placed a handkerchief on my head,
then she left. I don’t know where she waited.
Holy Holy Holy, Lord God of Hosts.
Maybe she stayed in the drugstore
across the street, or in the library.
When Mama returned she waited outside
the chapel, like she knew she was the kind
of mother who allowed her child to come
to church without a hat, and all that that meant.
Do you have memories of your young self, something you shared with a family member?
Today’s weather brings us snow squalls, dancing high winds, and a promise of more snowfall. We’ve been out to gather pine cones and break up small fallen branches for kindling. There’s snow cover over most of the ground, but under the large white pines, there’s some bare ground still. This afternoon will bring another snowstorm. The snow behind has many deer and fox tracks. The stream has icicles built up along the edges where branches overhang. The water is very high and moving quickly for this time of year. I was able to get in a little bit of sledding. I hope you are comfortable and warm wherever you are.
I’ve gotten used to the sounds deep in a winter night, the loud crack of ice from the brook, a sharp ping of the wood stove reaching some new temperature, muffled tumbles of a smoldering log, the creak of floorboards as if someone walked quietly
Downstairs the refrigerator motor hums, the water heater readjusts. What is shifting inside this house with me, I wonder content, then roll back to sleep. The snow loosens its grip on the roof slides with a grand whoosh, louder than any wild animal outside.
Posted inPoems|Comments Off on January Days & Nights
~ My poem, The Coming Time, will be the featured post at the literary ezine Stanzaic Stylings, edited by Joanne Oliverie. It will be published January first, to start off the new year.
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Elaine Reardon 