The Potato Peelers

work in progress, last of the Irish cycle

Dirt broke, soil spent, Eden exiled: 

Abraham, Agan, Agnew, Ashe … 

Sligo’s all but dead waking line 

waiting the last indignity 

of what little life had left.

Bane, Barnes, Beers, and Birns 

staggering shoulder to shoulder 

into the black maw-worm of poverty’s hold; 

they’d sail the famished road 

like so much weary chattel 

being carted off to the knackers.

Caffee, Cafferty, Caffrey 

Cullen’s pernicious lot, 

Lord John’s squatting cottiers  

too many idled hay-c***s, 

fermenting rebels 

in the wind. All those hungry 

mouths to feed … Dades, Danaher 

Deavers, Earley, Early, and Farrans.  

The great Exodus, on their way west. 

To America, milk and honey, 

the never ending land 

of lost souls second chances, 

home to all the unwashed 

feet of a continent coming apart 

at the seams. I see the children, 

their waifish urchins, tomorrow’s  

potato peelers, kicking up the dirt 

for want of anything else to do.

Fay, Feagans, Fee, Feeneys 

Galligher, Goughs, Hague …

potato peelers through and through.

Author's Note

Have decided to post this in fragments, adding on to it as it emerges, as it is a beast. Feel free to comment as it appears, or to wait for its completion, whenever that may be.

Reviews

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn..]

Ken,

In absorbing this unusual piece of poetry that begins in beginning of beginnings of casting aside the adorning garments of old world's shouts of, "Tally Ho!," and instead bears forth the birth of a journey soon to become a trek with its stars above in the night skies, camp fires burning, men and women yearning for home whilst daring to seek a better and brighter future come morning of echos of "Wagons Ho!" Thus, begins a Saga ... 'Tis a trek that seeks to shape a panoramic vision of the peoples and lives that shaped this continent (some for good and some damn sure for bad's wrong) in lives lived as that which endears me to call them common folk, for I am a common folk and damn sure proud of it ... 'Tis also an adventure that introduces one to the family names that sacrificed all of everything to make a go of it in do or die circumstances that demanded that they plough straight ahead, fearlessly, and never look back ... 'Tis, a tale of how people came to be the folks that they were out of life's adversities of character molding circumstances ... And how sons and daughters came to be walking in the identical shoes of their mothers and fathers before them, in a cycle that continues to this day, though the light bulb has replaced the camp fire, autos have replaced horses, and planes have replaced trains, but the struggle to find solace in action's aspirations of having sought to better oneself remains, and always shall remain, no matter the people, or the land ... Very enjoyable read ... I do hope that you can tell …


Marve

[Ken e Bujold]

thanks Marvin. Your very kind review is much appreciated. this poem, still a work in progress, is the shared history of my family, and many others like us. sons and daughters of the many who arrived here as part of the great Irish dispora of the potato famine of the 1840s. Later parts of the poem will delve into my family's story, but this opening is the overall arch of the history of the famine itself.

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham]

Ken,

Sadly a famine which our friends the Brits were accused of having to help orchestrate and perpetuate, though we shall never know all the evil that governments to, British, American German, French, Russian, etc., but they all, each and every one, most certainly do ...

My mother was a Flynn, an Irish Basque with that dark complexion of said Errol Flynn, which I too possessed up until around I was mid fortyish with Hispanic folk always speaking to me in Spanish, thinking I was Tex-Mex, and my wife was ...

My Dad was a Graham whose ancestors dwelt in Scotland for 500 years before being outsted to Ulster, Ireland. Clan Graham were infamous Border Reivers of various ill repute and his ancestors took on the Cox name as an attempt to conceal the identity of one George Cox who immigrated to America just prior to the Revolutionary War. Curiously, one George Cox and One George Graham, in accordance to census records of that day and time, were born on the same day of the say year, and were shot dead by the same man on the very same day that saw the end of both their lives ... Obviously, the alias did not work for long ... LOL!

And so, here in America, especially the West, most all the names of cities towns, canyon, cattle trails, etc. are derived from Border Reiver Clan names and places carried over to America from the original Old West of the Disputed Lands of the Border Regions and Border Marches of Scotland and England prior to and up to the Rule of said King James ...

Thus, I sensed where you were headed and goin in your own famiy's history of you and your family of today came to be here, and to be exactly who you are ... A great memorial tribute, you are offering as a historical treasure chest to your children and their children after them, and you ...

Marv

[emmajoygreen]

What a fascinating and cleverly constructed poem, Ken. Yes, 'constructed' because you have built summary into reality. There is history and happenings, names alphabetically stated, sadness and exodus - oh and much, much more. They have been juggled into a personally felt past then - left to rest til more comes along to make it as whole as it can be. This is such a fine piece of writing.

' .. home to all the unwashed

feet of a continent coming apart
at the seams. I see the children,
their waifish urchins, tomorrow’s
potato peelers, kicking up the dirt

for want of anything else to do.'

There is such a shameful tragedy of events in a would-be preface to your writing.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I remember an old Vogues' song..."the land of Milk and Honey" and was humming it as i drifted
through this masterful use of alliteration.
I hope the children of tomorrow can kick up enough dirt to put the fields of rationalization and hope back together.
j.

[W. Barrett Munn]

All I can say is this is some start and the last three stanzas are superb.

Winston

[Ken e Bujold]

thanks. Have opted to post in fragments as it comes along, because I really don't have any idea of it's approximate length. In theory, traces the story of the Irish famine ships and dispora, but it is also my family history, and what may or may not be included from it is still in the air. And of course how soon I reach the Z's. As an aside, each of the Irish names so far is from family names I personally know of. Sort of cap tip to the Irish Canadians