"Your poems have no rhythm," said the small block of a woman to the American Fulbright scholar who had just read four of his best pieces to a packed audience. "Is it the way of modern poetry not to have rhythm?" she asked.
"I think you mean rhyme." said the scholar.
"I know perfectly well what I mean and you don't have it." Then turning to the director of the creative writing programme she demanded to know where all the brochures for the MA programme had gone. He told her that the other members of the audience had taken them. "You didn't bring enough." she said and turned to leave.
"Let's go," whispered Margaret. Neither of us knew this woman but Margaret didn't want to draw her on us. We were almost at the exit when I recognised the husband of a friend of mine. I stopped to talk to him.
"I'm gasping for a cup of coffee," said a voice behind us, "can I join you?" We turned around. It was the woman from the reading. Caught by surprise I replied, "Of course." As we walked slowly past the Protestant Church on the edge of Bantry square she told me her name was Hyacinth and that she was a retired nun living in Clonakilty. We were almost at end of the square before I realised Margaret was gone.
Hyacinth's feet had corns and so I suggested we go to Frog's Café as that was the nearest. Once inside the café, Hyacinth found us a table for two by the window while I queued up at the counter. Two brimming cups of latte later I joined her.
"Did they give us any bit of a biscuit to go with our coffee?" she said peering around the cups. I shrugged and said I wasn't given any. Up she went to counter and charmed the staff into giving her a 'bit of a biscuit', a Danish pastry. No charge.
At 4.30 pm we left the café to climb the steep hill to Bantry Library to hear Eileen Battersby, book reviewer with the Irish Times, read from her first novel. We were early enough to get front row seats but we opted for the second row as Hyacinth 'didn't want to be looking up her nose.' Partway through the reading Hyacinth leaned into me and making no attempt to lower her voice said, "I don't care much for her book, do you?"
After the reading, I fled the scene leaving Sister Hyacinth behind and dashed down the hill to the Maritime Hotel to listen to Eileen Battersby again; this time to hear her talk about her book reviews with the Times.
After Eileen I ran down the corridor to join the queue for Colm Toibin's reading of his new novel at 8.30pm. I texted my friend Mary who was driving down from Cork City to tell her of my whereabouts and that I would keep a seat for her. Hyacinth appeared and joined me in the queue. When the doors opened there was a rush for the seats but we managed to get three great seats in the front row right smack in front of where Colm would be sitting. I put my bag on the third seat for Mary.
Two fat men sat two seats down from Hyacinth. A Dublin man approached us and asked if he could have Mary's seat. I told him no but gestured to the two free seats between Hyacinth and the fat men. He took the one next to Hyacinth. A minute later Ian Bailey walked up and asked if Mary's seat was free. Again I said no but pointed to the last free seat between the Dublin man and the fat men. He took it.
Whoever designed the seating plan did not account for adult bodies. Hyacinth and myself being low sized women were fine but Ian Bailey is a large man and was forced to perch on the edge of his seat. He could not lean back owing to the overlap of equally large male bodies on either side of him. He got up and politely moved Mary's seat which was at the end of the row three inches further out. I obliged by shuffling my seat three inches out too. Bernadette moved a fraction but it made no difference: he was still forced to sit forward in his seat for the entire reading.
I didn't know anything about Colm Toibin other than he wrote Brooklyn which became a movie. I asked Hyacinth Colm's age. "I don't know," she said, "but I'll ask Ian," and turning to her right she leaned across the Dublin man to ask the question. Ian didn't know either but calculated he was about 65. Ian then got up and disappeared for a few minutes. The Dublin man took advantage of his absence to ask Hyacinth whether he was sitting next to someone famous. Hyacinth said he had been a suspect in a local murder back in 1996. I urged Hyacinth to keep her voice down while frantically checking the room for Ian's whereabouts.
Right on time and to vigorous applause Colm Toibin took his seat on the stage. Despite his dour photograph in the festival programme, Colm was funny, and kind to the young interviewer. He read from two different sections of his book the story of which is based on a Greek legend involving murder and revenge and into which he interweaved several Irish myths.
The questions were then open to the floor. Only two were asked. One of them being why didn't Colm draw on the god of Eros more fully and why he didn't describe the sex scenes in detail. "Mother of God," exclaimed Hyacinth letting her eyes roll wildly all the way to the back of her head. Colm seemed a little taken aback by the question but rallied saying that he had "in fact had found a book on ancient Greek homosexuality complete with very explicit illustrations but had to give up after page 16."
Colm then read the final three pages of his book. The ghost of Arrestes's mother is lingering in the garden of the family home and she wants to speak to her son. Colm freely admitted he borrowed heavily from Macbeth and Hamlet for this section by having the mother haunt Arrestes after he murdered her. "Because you see," said Colm smiling down at us, "I don't know what someone does after they murder their mother. Do they go have a meal? Do they have a bath? Do they go talk to a friend? I mean, what do they do? I looked at all the various writers: Ann Enright, James Joyce, John Bourne, even Jane Austen but nowhere could I find a writer that describes what someone does after they murder their mother."
Colm paused, smiled again and said, "Thank you." The audience exploded into applause. The interview was over. I jumped up out of my seat and bolted for the exit. I spotted Mary making her way towards me from the back of the room.
"Where were you?" I cried. Mary explained she had arrived late and was only allowed enter the room by the back door. Hyacinth caught up with us and beaming a welcoming smile at Mary said, "So, where are we meeting tomorrow?"
"I think you mean rhyme." said the scholar.
"I know perfectly well what I mean and you don't have it." Then turning to the director of the creative writing programme she demanded to know where all the brochures for the MA programme had gone. He told her that the other members of the audience had taken them. "You didn't bring enough." she said and turned to leave.
"Let's go," whispered Margaret. Neither of us knew this woman but Margaret didn't want to draw her on us. We were almost at the exit when I recognised the husband of a friend of mine. I stopped to talk to him.
"I'm gasping for a cup of coffee," said a voice behind us, "can I join you?" We turned around. It was the woman from the reading. Caught by surprise I replied, "Of course." As we walked slowly past the Protestant Church on the edge of Bantry square she told me her name was Hyacinth and that she was a retired nun living in Clonakilty. We were almost at end of the square before I realised Margaret was gone.
Hyacinth's feet had corns and so I suggested we go to Frog's Café as that was the nearest. Once inside the café, Hyacinth found us a table for two by the window while I queued up at the counter. Two brimming cups of latte later I joined her.
"Did they give us any bit of a biscuit to go with our coffee?" she said peering around the cups. I shrugged and said I wasn't given any. Up she went to counter and charmed the staff into giving her a 'bit of a biscuit', a Danish pastry. No charge.
At 4.30 pm we left the café to climb the steep hill to Bantry Library to hear Eileen Battersby, book reviewer with the Irish Times, read from her first novel. We were early enough to get front row seats but we opted for the second row as Hyacinth 'didn't want to be looking up her nose.' Partway through the reading Hyacinth leaned into me and making no attempt to lower her voice said, "I don't care much for her book, do you?"
After the reading, I fled the scene leaving Sister Hyacinth behind and dashed down the hill to the Maritime Hotel to listen to Eileen Battersby again; this time to hear her talk about her book reviews with the Times.
After Eileen I ran down the corridor to join the queue for Colm Toibin's reading of his new novel at 8.30pm. I texted my friend Mary who was driving down from Cork City to tell her of my whereabouts and that I would keep a seat for her. Hyacinth appeared and joined me in the queue. When the doors opened there was a rush for the seats but we managed to get three great seats in the front row right smack in front of where Colm would be sitting. I put my bag on the third seat for Mary.
Two fat men sat two seats down from Hyacinth. A Dublin man approached us and asked if he could have Mary's seat. I told him no but gestured to the two free seats between Hyacinth and the fat men. He took the one next to Hyacinth. A minute later Ian Bailey walked up and asked if Mary's seat was free. Again I said no but pointed to the last free seat between the Dublin man and the fat men. He took it.
Whoever designed the seating plan did not account for adult bodies. Hyacinth and myself being low sized women were fine but Ian Bailey is a large man and was forced to perch on the edge of his seat. He could not lean back owing to the overlap of equally large male bodies on either side of him. He got up and politely moved Mary's seat which was at the end of the row three inches further out. I obliged by shuffling my seat three inches out too. Bernadette moved a fraction but it made no difference: he was still forced to sit forward in his seat for the entire reading.
I didn't know anything about Colm Toibin other than he wrote Brooklyn which became a movie. I asked Hyacinth Colm's age. "I don't know," she said, "but I'll ask Ian," and turning to her right she leaned across the Dublin man to ask the question. Ian didn't know either but calculated he was about 65. Ian then got up and disappeared for a few minutes. The Dublin man took advantage of his absence to ask Hyacinth whether he was sitting next to someone famous. Hyacinth said he had been a suspect in a local murder back in 1996. I urged Hyacinth to keep her voice down while frantically checking the room for Ian's whereabouts.
Right on time and to vigorous applause Colm Toibin took his seat on the stage. Despite his dour photograph in the festival programme, Colm was funny, and kind to the young interviewer. He read from two different sections of his book the story of which is based on a Greek legend involving murder and revenge and into which he interweaved several Irish myths.
The questions were then open to the floor. Only two were asked. One of them being why didn't Colm draw on the god of Eros more fully and why he didn't describe the sex scenes in detail. "Mother of God," exclaimed Hyacinth letting her eyes roll wildly all the way to the back of her head. Colm seemed a little taken aback by the question but rallied saying that he had "in fact had found a book on ancient Greek homosexuality complete with very explicit illustrations but had to give up after page 16."
Colm then read the final three pages of his book. The ghost of Arrestes's mother is lingering in the garden of the family home and she wants to speak to her son. Colm freely admitted he borrowed heavily from Macbeth and Hamlet for this section by having the mother haunt Arrestes after he murdered her. "Because you see," said Colm smiling down at us, "I don't know what someone does after they murder their mother. Do they go have a meal? Do they have a bath? Do they go talk to a friend? I mean, what do they do? I looked at all the various writers: Ann Enright, James Joyce, John Bourne, even Jane Austen but nowhere could I find a writer that describes what someone does after they murder their mother."
Colm paused, smiled again and said, "Thank you." The audience exploded into applause. The interview was over. I jumped up out of my seat and bolted for the exit. I spotted Mary making her way towards me from the back of the room.
"Where were you?" I cried. Mary explained she had arrived late and was only allowed enter the room by the back door. Hyacinth caught up with us and beaming a welcoming smile at Mary said, "So, where are we meeting tomorrow?"
