Today is the UK’s National Poetry Day. Since Northern Ireland is part of the UK and my husband was born in Northern Ireland I like that I get to celebrate a National Poetry Day twice a year. Three times if you include my birthplace, the States. But today, I want to wish all my British poetry friends a wonderful poetry filled and fuelled day.
Cuilcagh Lakelands UNESCO Global Geopark is partly in the Republic of Ireland and also in Northern Ireland. There is a UNESCO World Poetry Day every 21st March, too. So we get three opportunities at celebrating our earth’s heritage and the natural environment each year. I felt that today is an appropriate day to give you an update on the Geopark Poetry Map.
As all things in the time of Covid, in a time of remote working and summer holidays, projects can snail pace at times. We are working steadily towards the launch the Geopark Poetry Map. The long short list has been read and re-read, silently and aloud and the final eight poems have been selected from our Open Call. Those who will be included have been informed. In the final formation I am satisfied that we have a balanced representation in terms of geography and gender. We also have poems, cinquain and haiku, from school children from Cavan and Fermanagh so we have also involved young people in the project even under very restrictive circumstances. We were also lucky enough to have Dara McAnulty, who spent his childhood within the Geopark, to agree to writing a new poem for the Geopark Poetry Map even as he was working on his A levels!
Sidebar: I am so grateful that two schools stepped into the project given that they have had a horrid year and incredible academic challenges during Covid. The Fermanagh school has a kind of bell tent pitched so that there is a foot off the ground to allow air flow. This gave us some shelter from the rain the day of our workshops, though the midges were feeling pretty frisky! The Cavan class was very small and they cheerfully carried their desks and chairs outside and remained masked because they shared desk space. Which I found very moving – considerate of others’ health, stoical in the face of current realities and still engaged with the creative process! The principals of Florencecourt Primary and Curravagh National School are heroes in my estimation. Despite all the bureaucracy, both public health and educational, they wanted their kids to be able to do something creative. And mostly to engage with someone who was not the same face seen every day for that past eighteen months. Truly, they are educators with a wholistic sense of welfare for their pupils.
Meanwhile, during this week of UK Poetry Day, Ramor-Townhall Cavan are busy casting the actors and recording the voice overs of the texts written by the five commissioned authors, the four schoolchildren and eight adults selected to have their poems mapping the geoheritage of various sites around Cuilcagh Lakelands UNESCO Global Geopark. We are plugging along and are getting closer to the finished product.
We hope to have a launch date for the Geopark Poetry Map firmed up soon…but as Mercury is retrograde until 19th October and Mercury Retrograde tends to slow down and snarl alll things internet, transport and communication, I am waiting with bated breath…
In the meantime, I include the geoheritage poem I wrote to Poetry Ireland Day last April.
The Hindmarsh Theory of Instability In Ribbed Moraines The world is made of caprice and chaos. Or so it may seem. Even as the land quakes and is sliding avalanches, sacred geometry spirals around ice its melt, clay and rock. Though you might not see. Though the evidence is there at your feet. Boulder and clay fractured by ice slide. Dragged like Jayne Torville in the grand finale to Bolero, Dean pulling them prone, their skates scarring tracks across the surface. Parallel ripples evidence of creation’s mammoth feat. Minibus bouncing down a Cavan lane, a verdant hummock, suggestion of the ribs in the moraine. More like lazy beds built for giants’ appetites in times before potatoes would be a feed in a fulacht fia. A lough pocked land where little rivers run between, twisting, gnarled like the antlers of the Giant Elk dropped off at the end of its last rutting season. Extinction. Fossil memory. The sacred geometry in chaos. The buzzard flying high above can see the lines that ripple running down ancient Grandmother Earth’s cheeks. The buzzard can see more than we who have all the evidence there beneath our feet. Caprice. Chaos. Sacred geometry.