When my poetry collection Bone Road was published by Arlen House last year, my greatest wish was to read in Belmullet. This was where the story started of my great-grandparents who emigrated from Elly Bay to the US in 1883 with their six children as part of the Tuke Emigration Scheme. This verse memoir charts the course of their leavetaking and homecoming and I wanted to acknowledge where my ancestors left from.
I couldn't have been more delighted when an invitation came from the Belmullet Heritage and Historical Society (Coiste Oidreachta Iorrais) to be part of their launch night with researcher Rosemarie Geraghty on 18 January. Rosemarie is an expert in this field and has done tremendous work bringing the past and the present together through recording the passenger lists of all the ships and and contacting as many of the descendants as possible.
 |
| Ian McAndrew Photo: Peter Moore |
Belmullet will be 200 years old in 2024 and the launch of the society was a very positive and successful step towards its celebrations. I would like to thank the committee,
Ian McAndrew, Katherine Mangan, Mary Barrett, and Rosemarie Geraghty for their wonderful hospitality. Check out Blacksod Bay emigration for more information on this great work.
Here are three poems from the collection
Hunger for Somewhere Else
Ian McAndrew, Katherine Mangan, Mary Barrett, and Rosemarie Geraghty for their wonderful hospitality. Check out Blacksod Bay emigration for more information on this great work.
Here are three poems from the collection
Hunger for Somewhere Else
They’re
glad to see the back of
all the wind-crippled whins,
turn their heads from
the rain over Achill head,
smoor
the final fire.
They’ve had their bellyful
of stinking haulms,
grateful now to hand back
their
hungry piece of grass to the landlord
and
watch the dog on a scatter of stone,
a
fetch in the tumbled-down scailp,
a
fling of dunlins on sand
waiting
for the boat to sail.
 |
| Rosemarie Geraghty Photo: Peter Moore |
Leaving
The
longest day still lighting up their dawn,
they
follow the carts of hopefuls,
along
the famished track
down
to the sea.
Beyond
the calm waters of Elly Bay,
the
S.S. Waldensian lies anchored,
brighter
than any golden hoard
offered
to Manannán, the sea god.
There are scant tears,
for
their passage is paid;
new
clothes on their backs,
landing money promised.
The whole family going:
my great-grandparents, six children,
ten-year-old Brigid, my grandmother
– that’s Tuke’s deal –
 |
| Geraldine Mills Photo: Peter Moore |
Outfitted
Waiting for high-water
the chosen clusters
are ferried by the blue jackets
on the Seahorse gunboat.
They leave the bay
then
out through
the
Narrows of Achill,
where
the water runs
with
unmerciful force.
They climb aboard the steamer,
men in forward, women aft.
Outfitted with a straw bed,
a pillow to lay their heads,
enough marine soap
to wash the whole of Erris
out of them.
A
swell builds mid-Atlantic.
Through
spume and spindrift they sail,
fog
too thick for soupers,
they
sight an iceberg.
