Clonmel Tragedy


SS Peter & Pauls’ Church Clonmel, Co. Tipperary.

Tragedy unfolded in the early hours of this morning on the quiet streets of Clonmel in Tipperary.  The situation is described as “Bizarre” by local Gardai.  The body of a young man was found at the foot of the bell tower of Saints Peter & Pauls’ Parish Church.

Described as wearing “some kind of hoodie” the deceased had lethal blades strapped to his wrists.  The young man carried no identification and the Gardai are appealing for information from the public.  Anybody who was in the area between the hours of 2 and 4 am on Feb 6th are asked to contact the local Garda station.

They are particularly interested in the whereabouts of a cartload of straw which has gone missing from the grounds of the Church.

Lest we forget



I wanted to write something about the twin towers disaster anniversary.  The way I begin these posts is to find an appropriate poem.  It may not be a poem that narratively expresses the situation but it usually expresses my emotional state when I am writing the piece.  This is the reason I include the poems.  You remember history and events well, but the emotional zeitgeist can slip away over time.  Poetry is emotion embodied in word, and I use it to fix my emotions at a point in time.

So I searched for poems about towers and by chance I came across this poem by Countee Cullen, one of the Harlem Rennaissance writers of the 1920’s.  I never read Cullen before and I was delighted to find this poem in particular.  You will see why.

When you read the poem from the perspective of a Negro in the USA of the 1920’s it is quite clear that this is a poem which dreams of a future equality of man, even a celebration of being black.

But this is the 11th of September, the anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Centre.  Imagine you are standing at ground zero.  Imagine a crowd before you of those bereaved by the disaster.  Now read the poem to them.

How powerful is this?

From the Dark Tower:  by Countee Cullen

We shall not always plant while others reap
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always countenance, abject and mute
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
We were not made eternally to weep.

The night whose sable breast relieves the stark
White stars is no less lovely being dark,
And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.