one for st patricks day: POEM FOR A LOCAL HISTORIAN (in memory of Jim Kemmy 1936 -1997) ‘Old people mumbling low in the night of change and of ageing when they think you asleep and not listening - and we wide awake in the dark, as when we were children.’ (Desmond O’Grady) It was poignant, when walking away from the graveyard that very warm midday, that the only sound which could be heard after he was buried was that of a member of his trade, a stonemason, simply chipping away at a monument. (Mary Jackman) In this city, in every town, in every village, there is this man dusty with archives and old snapshots; this deep fellow who digs out truths from scraps, who drinks from a bowl of swirling voices and makes sense of things, makes sense when all else lies in chaos. In his dreams, wars are not dead. They scream from his books. He will not let the suffering go - he owes the children that. There is something noble in his calling, in his bearing. His work is beautiful. In this particular place, you can call him Jim. You can see his face forever in the autumn leaves, the leaves of books, and the dance of history, a local historian and carver of tales so memorable that every street must value his love: the love of our people though the ages, the love of learning, the search for dignity that underpins these lanes. In Limerick, Jims imagination still blossoms and keeps us rooted in the drift of memory. He teaches us lessons. Listen to his spirit breathe deep as the Shannon. His voice forever flies with the power of knowledge. Beautiful dreamer wake unto me, Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for Thee. KEITH ARMSTRONG
Posted on: Mon, 17 Mar 2014 08:45:15 +0000
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