Thurs 1st May
St Peter’s Church, Phibsborough
PHIZZFEST LAUNCH WITH POET PAULA MEEHAN
FRI 2ND MAY
Venue: McGeough's Bohemian Lounge
8.00 pm (Doors 7.30 pm) Cost: €12 Booking Essential
DERMOT BOLGER IN
SAT 3RD MAY
McGeoughs Bohemian Lounge, Doyle’s Corner
"THE HOMER OF THE NORTH CIRCULAR ROAD”
Presented by Colbert Kearney, Author of The Writings of Brendan Behan
Commemorating the 50th Anniversary of the Death of Brendan Behan
This talk will argue that 'Borstal Boy' is a great coming-of-age novel that stands comparison with any ever written anywhere, in which Behan managed to transcribe the oral storytelling tradition of inner-city Dublin of which he was the last great exponent.
Colbert Kearney was born in Eccles Street and grew up in Finglas where he was lucky enough to be taught by Eugene Watters/EoghanÓTuairisc. After further study at UCD and Cambridge University he was appointed to the English Department at UCC from which he recently retired as professor emeritus. Among his written works are a range of essays mostly on Irish writing, two books concentrating on the working class language of Dublin writers--The Writings of Brendan Behan and The Glamour of Grammar (Sean O’Casey)—and a novel, The Consequence. He is currently translating ÓTuairisc’sAifreannnaMarbh into English.
Sat 3rd May
Clarkes Phibsborough House
PHIZZFEST POETRY AWARD AND READINGS
This is the third year of the Phizzfest Poetry Award. The winning poem will be announced and there will be readings by the prizewinners, members of Rathmines Writers Group and other invited poets who submitted work. The Award will be presented following the reading.
Rathmines Writers Group members have won many accolades in creative writing competitions both in Ireland and abroad. They work closely with other community meeting groups in the Dublin area.
2014 Poetry Award Winner
Ráithín na Cloig, Bray
All day a louring sky has squatted
low on the slate-grey horizon.
Under its sullen light, the sea
is beaten metal, tarnished, unannealed,
sending slow scallops landward.
The brae is in winter livery:
bare furze, tree-fern and bracken.
I’ve climbed to this silence again.
The waves of hundreds of years have broken
since Bray last heard a bell here
inside this open ruin, roofless,
mute as a cleft palate,
from which faith, a lost language,
has long since flown.