Covered Nipples Reveal Truth

Genesis: Creation of Eve; marble relief on the left pier of the façade of the cathedral; Orvieto, Italy. Copyright Georges Jansoone 2008; source: wikipedia.

“The Creation of Eve”: A marble relief on the left pier of the façade of the cathedral in Orvieto, Italy. © Georges Jansoone 2008 (Source: Wikimedia Commons).  This image illustrates a traditional interpretation of Genesis 2:21-22.

Im a big supporter of the #freethenipple movement, and of the “breast is best”, as whats natural is good for mankind. We must stop the taboos which show what is being a woman is something to be hidden in shame.

In the book “Why Men Have Nipples” I first came across the notion that on conception all are female, and then switch to male after about 6-8 weeks. Some say the fetus is non-sexual and after 8 weeks turns either male or female, but I think not.

Body and mind both must change, and when they dont, gay people happen.

Thats how natural what has been oppressed for the last few thousand years is, and why free for all abortion is so deadly, that if it can be figured out in the unborn are they gay, they can be selectively aborted.

Thats not equality.

Pussy Riot in a #freethenipple posePussy Riot in a #freethenipple pose

Man it was believed in the image of God was made
Woman from his rib created, the story is told…
Either God is a woman, we tell to the listeners dismayed
At the attempts of a non scientist to speak so bold
Or we are not of Gods image made, but of woman instead
For the fetus template is female, we tell those who of the thought scorn
Its proved by science, by logic and reason,
It explains why men with nipples are born.

Some time after conception, as if a switch tripped
The fetus / zygote turns male, both body and mind
But if the mind does not change when the switch flipped
When the male child matures, his sexuality as gay he shall find.
Should the mind change, but the body female remain
A lesbian she will find herself, when of her sexuality aware
Thats nature, understood only now, so simple to explain
Its all natural what the un-understanding dismiss as being “quare”

This weird world that normal in conceptions calls
That has issues wiuth female nipples in public be seen
Its charade and shade of sense soon falls
Displayed for all the charlatans they have been.
Why hide nipples, that function as nipples are supposed to do
As designed, when the young from their mother do feed
Yet the immature of men, redundant are acceptable in full view
Biological hangovers for which they have no need?

So the next time you see a censored nipple on a page
Or on a screen, or covered in embarrassment on a beach
Let their covering cause for you embarrassment and rage
Le you those who find female nipples objectionable teach
In a few simple lines how once women we all were it regales
But for a mystical switch triggered by DNA we don’t understand we’d still be to boot
Nipples are natural, beautiful, should be freed from stigma, just like a males
How God made man, how Gay people happen, in these few lines is the truth!


Gerard M. Dileo:
it may be said that we all began as both men and women (embryonically), then we all began as women (biochemically), and then some of us go on as men.



Plotting a Duel in Merlin Woods

Merlin Woods in a wood near where I live. A hospital is there now, and the wood is a public park. However, in days gone by, it is where duels were fought and scores settled. While walking there one day lately, and pondering the stand off over the Banagher Horse Fair, I wrote these words…

Shadows stand each side of me,
Change shape as I pass by
They are but shadows of the trees
In the corner of my eye
I tell myself, as dusk falls down
Now duellers of times past
Whose doubts and debts were settled by deaths
Invoked by pistol blast.

How many died here, through those years?
The history books dont tell
In time we will all know all
Who faught, who went to Hell
Disputes are not so settled in this modern age
Prehaps it is a good thing
Or to be fair and settle the issue of the Fair
Pistols at dawn I to Merlin Woods might have to bring!

Why cant a people sell horses on a village street
As they have done for centuries past
The whinging of folk with power hungry and powerful folks ears
Mean these old traditions may not last.
If only it was those times now past
The battle I fair and square would have won
For Id practice will as good as McCarty the Kid
Drop all foes with a blast from my gun!

Castle in Merlin Woods

Castle in Merlin Woods


1) Merlin Woods – a place outside Galway in the Renmore / Doughiska area where duels were fought. Its where I live as I write this poem. More on Merlin Woods >>>
2) Duel – pistol fight, usually at dawn, to the death. The best shot wins, justice of survival, not right.
3) Banagher Horse Fair, I grew up in Banagher and loved its fair, and am trying to keep it, against a powerful opposition from people with money and the ears of politicians, who are every bit as currupt as The Big House in the Lincoln County War
4) McCarty the Kid – the story of Billy the Kid vs Brady (a Cavan man). William McCarty (not Carty like me, and we think no relation, though the spelling is the same, we are O’Carty not McCarty!) a.k.a. William Bonney is of a desperado who hated curruption and ended up on the wrong side of the law. Akin to today, the law was brought in not to be just, but to further the aims of a section of society at the expense of the rest.
5) Desire to duel: In courts, you get state justice, what the powers that be want, not what is just. In a duel, you stand a better chance, depending on your shooting skills!



A Cat and I

Next door to our house in Banagher was McIntyre (then it was Deanes), and one of their cats was up a tree when I walked under it. I was around fifteen or sixteen at the time, and wrote this poem afterwards. Its one of my favourites…

This is one of mine from years back, the early 90’s… included in a book I done with Lulu…

"Gizmo" - one of our Aristo-Cats in Renmore!

“Gizmo” – one of our Aristo-Cats in Renmore!

I saw a cat high up a tree
I looked at her, she looked at me
With such a gaze as if to say
“Why is it you look at me that way?”

I moved not, as not did she
And, at each other, we
Kept looking… staring eye to eye
She from fear… me? I know not why!

At last I slowly moved away
To leave her at peace to hunt for prey
Animals are strange, sometimes people claim
Perhaps about us could be said the same

For with her little brains, we admire puss…
And yet, for all of ours, she dont admire us!



Bitter Sugar


The island of St. Croix has a Granard, Annally, Longford, Corn Hill, Cartys, Cartys Point, and Madame Cartys placenames. All very quant and interesting until we realise these were some of the slave owners…"

A distant isle, where it rarely rains
Families in a Granard that never burned
Bar neath the sun, until
The darkness of the day to night turned
Cooled the sweat upon the brow
Of those whose forefathers shackles and chains
Rattled in the fields in fear of the whip yielded
By those of whose power only the names remains.

The fields from where my people come
Lived in fear of the yeomans sword
The flames set by redcoats and Covenanter
The neighbours whispering words.
Little known, less spoken of the darkies
Driven by plantation agents from here across the sea
Drovers of humanity whip workers to grow the bitter sugar
That I stir here now to sweeten my coffee.

Article on Longford involvement in the Slave Trade >>>


“darkies” a semi-racist term for coloured people, can be or not depending on the context used in the vernacular today spoken in North Longford.

“Covenantor” – puritan and Cromwellian troops that burned Longford to the ground in wars from the 1600 to 1650 period.

“neighbours whispering words” informers who often turned in people for money or a grudge.

“Drovers” Pauric Colums famous poem of The Drover is invoked to show the way these people thought others were like cattle to be used and abused.




Provinces three by waters banks
By war and history defined
Men with quill drawing maps
Each side to each outlined.
Breiffne split between O Reilly and O Rourke
Owned not by either but by the Crown
Who in time by rebellion and bloodshed
Had their banners and flags torn down.
Today, a sleepy village, I walk
The latest of my family there
Famed in family lore for the ructions
At every May Day fair.
I may make it for May Day this year,
If I will I do not know…
Continue a tradition of my father
Where he met friends and foes all those years ago.

ArvaghThoughts in verse after walking to Arvagh a few ears ago. “Fair Day in Arvagh” and “May Day in Arvagh” were sayings dad used to have for a riotous situation!



Shoulder High Let Them Carry Him – Jim Larkin Tribute

What would Jim Larkin make of the corruption in the Labour Party today? Or the roll over and take a piece actions of SIPTU? This is a poem I wrote some years back, which I have just restored to the website. Ill post the words later.



Blaggards and Blackguards, Slavery, Civil Rights, the Irish and the Longford Connection

When I was a child, I collected stamps. Sad, I know, but I loved it. One of the counties I got stamps from was Montserrat, the emerald isle of the carribean. A kind worded letter states I could be one of them, Carty being a very common name there, with that spelling (no Mac/Mc, and no H in the surname).

I said it to my mother who was bemused, but she told of an ancestor of her grandmother who was a plantation agent, but in Barbados, and her grandmother had a chest belonging to him, and where it went after her death, she never knew.

This fired my childish imagination, dreaming of pirate chests and treasure from the Caribbean, not knowing the pain and suffering beings such an agent – literally a slave driver – brought to the slaves.

Mother in her workplace with her colleagues at the 1925 F Street Club, on 1925 F Street, Washington, USA.

Mother in her workplace with her colleagues at the 1925 F Street Club, on 1925 F Street, Washington, USA.

My mother worked in America for ten odd years. She worked at the 1925 F Street Club, a millionaires clubhouse owned by a Laura M. Gross, of the family of the Bethlehem Oil Company. That lady was a ticket: she got frustrated telling people where it was, and was more than once heard yelling down the phone “YES… BETHLEHEM… did you ever hear of where Christ was born? Except this is Bethlehem, Pennsylvania… U…. S… A…!!!”

She was very active on the civil rights marches in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s, the only white in her workplace so to be. She was very close to the African American workers in the kitchen, who laughed at her for wanting to be involved. I never understood myself, until the reality of what a plantation agent was. It was probably guilt for what her family had done – even if only one – during his time wroking in the slave trade.

She used to tell of one chef who jokes about her sun bathing: “You whites look down on us blacks for being black… you are white: you then lie in the sun to become black! You are crazy!”. She used to tell of a bigoted bus driver who when being told what stop she wanted to get off at was sneered “You want to get off where all the blacks go”. Bar, he used the N word.

After her death, and more particularily after the house fire I suffered in 2014, I set to research the family history, the good, the bad and the ugly. This chap was the ugly: all I knew was the townland he was from, Ballinulty, his surname, Drake and that he was a slave driver, or black guard, politley known as a plantation agent.

Some may remember the trouble Mary O’ Rourke got into for using the term “blackguard / blaggard” about someone, it being alleged it was racist. She apologised, but should not have had to. Its reminding us of the horrific part some Irish had in the slave trade.

We all know there was Irish slaves. Some call them indentured labourers. Some know, some of these when freed became slave owners themselves. And it winds black rights activists up the walls when Irish say “We once were slaves too”, the activists saying their is a big difference between indentured labour and slavery.

In indentured labour, you agreed to work for free to pay for your passage and land. It was a sort of serfdom. You were not in chains, and while not free to leave until your term was up, you could not be bought and sold, unlike slaves. It was a state you entered of your own free will, and was the way most Irish Americans, German Americans and Dutch Americans in particular made their start in the New World.

Black activists deny Irish were slaves, in good faith. They however are wrong, and they are right.

Our Friend Cromwell, and the Foundation of Jamaica

To hell or to Connaught!”

Everyone knows of the Cromwellian conquest, the Puritan laws of the Commonwealth, the beheading of the King, the sack of Drogheda and the casting to Connaught of the conquered who were not killed.

Its not the first conquest where the loser got Connaught as the reserved share, indeed thats how it got its name “Conns Portion”, and it was an allusion to that that is was uttered in the first place, probably. What we learned in school was Cromwell tool all of Leinster, Munster and Ulster, and cast the Gaelic Irish to Connaught, in revenge for the excesses of the 1641 Rebellion – in which an alleged direct ancestor of mine Myles “The Slasher” O’ Reilly lost his head at The Bridge of Finea.

Truth is, he never conquered south Munster, bar Cork and Waterford cities – Drakes in Cork and Waterford are descendants of his soldiers, and not directly descended from the Drakes of Meath / Cavan / Longford and Dublin.

He got quote a bit of trouble from the natives – unsuprisingly – and to pacify the region he gave the area as a personal colony to the City of Bristol (which already had Dublin as its personal colony). Bristol was a major slave port. Of white slaves. They had the right to take slaves from south Wales, Cornwall, and now Southern Munster.

His sailors founded a colony in Jamaica, and the first slaves to work the sugar there were Irish. Not indentures labourers, but slaves. In chains, taken by force, against their will from their homeland.

This is what the Irish know and most black rights activists don’t know.

But even he was not the first to sell Irish as slaves, according to scholars, that honour going to Charles I father James I, son of Mary Queen of Scots, who sold political rivals in 1625.

John Martin writes:

“The Irish slave trade began when James II sold 30,000 Irish prisoners as slaves to the New World. His Proclamation of 1625 required Irish political prisoners be sent overseas and sold to English settlers in the West Indies. By the mid 1600s, the Irish were the main slaves sold to Antigua and Montserrat. At that time, 70 percent of the total population of Montserrat were Irish slaves.”

When the Portuguese sold black African slaves to the English after buying them from the Arabs who bought them from the Empire of Mali (the slaves being of Mali’s newly conquered areas and tribes and political enemies) there was a sensation in England, and a crisis of conscience.

Should white people be slaves? The consensus was no, and all were freed.

Some of which promptly became owners themselves.

It was after this Irish going over to the Caribbean became indentured labourers, and not slaves. The bit the black activists know about, and most Irish.

Working conditions were fierce. Allegedly, according to some books, “White Cargo” being one, the blacks were treated better though were slaves, as they could be sold for money, and if overworked could be lost as value, as an asset. The Irish could not be sold, so were abused and used and often worked literally to the death.

The truth in this I do not know, but it is highly plausible.

Tracking down the Embarrassing Relation

So, I went to track down this embarrassing relation, source of the story of the mysterius chest, about which I wrote in the verse Barbados Chest in a Molly Cottage

Emails to the papers in Barbados came to zilch, as did to the governement there. Cant blame them really. Then I posted the verse and a summary of the story on some genealogy boards on Facebook, and on one for Cavan (Ballinulty is on the Cavan border) I got a reply from a chap by the surname of Kirk…

Irish slave drivers from St. Croix

Irish slave drivers from St. Croix

The list of estates is here >>>


I was, and I am, stunned.

Map of St. Croix

St Croix Map

Granard and Longford are on the south coast, Madame Cartys is on the east coast. Cartys point is there too.

I browsed a few websites, and on VI FAMILIES I found one family, of Anglicans, but cannot figure out are they black or white, and if black, are they related to or just took the name of a white family.

Ive sent more emails, and am hoping to get more answers.

When we find the extent of involvement in the slave trade, I will be campaigning for an official apology issued from our governement. Its not just a Longford thing: theres a MUNSTER and a few other Irish names. Though we may not be directly responsible today, its still good we apologise as a nation, to wherever in the planet any of our folk were involved in the slave trade, either Gaelic Irish, Anglo Irish or Scots Irish.



Double Dutch and Gaelic at Tin Jug Reading in Birr and Portrait of the Poet as a Not Young Man

It is not often you get to listen to verse in both Dutch and Gaelic, and the Fannings poetry night in The Tin Jug gallery in Birr as part of Vintage Week was priceless, to an intimate, captive, and participative audience.

l to r - Richard Brennan, me fein and David Mallaghan at the Tin Jug studio for Birr Vintage Week poetry night. Missing from picture is David Duncan

l to r – Richard Brennan, me fein and David Mallaghan at the Tin Jug studio for Birr Vintage Week poetry night. Missing from picture is David Duncan

From ghost stories of incubi in Leap Castle – I really muist go there! – the the wild roses growing around Fanad in Donegal, to the melancholic poetry of rural Holland, the themes and the conversation drifted forth and back until we lost track of time, all washed down with wines, some of the nicest cheese I have eaten, and the introductory Bloody Marys.

It was not all plain sailing of course. Sure we got there, David Mallaghan, Richard Brennan, David Duncan and I of the Tullamore Rhymers Club, as invited by the Fannings. On getting in the door, as our hosts made us the Bloody Marys, our Carty got entrusted with their lovely dogs – don’t ask me the breed, they are strong and look purebred, but also docile, bar one which is very strong willed.

Yes, I got entrusted to bring them both for a walk.

Through the park.

Past other dogs.
And people.
And cats!

What could possibly go wrong?

I’m not a great one for prayers or a brave face, but I managed both and returned said canines to their hosts, and was quite happy to do justice to the drink after what I had envisaged going wrong had the dogs got away from me!

We set in to the studio itself for the reading, in which Derek treated us to a number of verse he had written of late in the Aran Islands, as well as a recital of “The Star of the County Down”. Derek has a number of poetry books out (extracts of which are on the old website) including The Northern Lights, The Tunnell and a collection of short stories too.

The gallery shows a selection of his carvings in bog oak, and he told of of the process of working with it and polishing it to get the desired effect.

His wife Rosalind Fanning is also a writer, and she read an evocative and short verse dedicated to the late Mrs Deely who used to have The Bookmark shop in Birr, before she succumbed to illness a good ten years back if not more I think.

We had the lady from Leap Castle, also the writer Eileen Casey and a friend of hers – Eileens stand out verse for me was the one of wanting any colour bar magnolia – and a few Dutch people, who treated us to verse by the poet Bleom… pronounced Bloom it was apt given we were in the foothills of the Sliabh Bloom I though to myself. They finished their contribution with a beautiful song of weaver girls in the factories singing of meeting their menfolk after and enjoying their bit of loving!

The other highlight for me was Michael McAteer… married to the late Dilly Hough (of Haughs in Banagher) he regaled us with tales and poetry of the Gaeltacht in Fanad in Donegal… it was beautiful to listen to the music of the language as psoken by a native as opposed to being presented sterilised on TV or in schools.

I contributed with “Elegy, Sweet Afton” among other verses, which I read out of the chapbook.

Contributions came from a girl Emma (Haslam?) and there were a few listeners too which make the nights so much more interesting as they pass comment and draw the conversation though different angles.

I will be forever known as the Google Poet, as for every line someone could not remember, quicker than Billy the Kid, our Carty had drawn the phone from the pocket and found it on Google. Which was brilliant, as verses folk had remembered from childhood the beauty of, but had lost the words of, found them once more, and we got to hear the details of what they had been telling us of before this…

Warts and All – Carty gets his portrait drawn!

The portrait above was drawn a few days ago on Shop Street in Galway by a talented artist from Melbourne... on looking at it after I thought of the title of the play "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" and thought of a melancholic twist to that as I reflected on the past few years which have been eventful to say the least. Life takes its toll...

The portrait above was drawn a few days ago on Shop Street in Galway by a talented artist from Melbourne… on looking at it after I thought of the title of the play “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man” and thought of a melancholic twist to that as I reflected on the past few years which have been eventful to say the least. Life takes its toll…

On getting back to Galway, while walking shop street I found a street artist drawing portraits, and for a mere 15€ I said, why not, and got one done… it was great to see it come together, what seemed for ages a series of shapes without meaning, with a swift join up of lines formed into a likeness of myself.

He always starts with the yes, he said, the character of the person is in the eyes. Mine say Axe Murderer I joked, however on looking at it I thought I looked both old and world weary, which inspired the verse “Portrait of the Poet as a Not So Young Man

Id thought of the play Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man when I saw it and posndered Im not getting much younger, and how much every time at the barbers the hair cut off gets whiter and whiter, and the verse flowed from there. A bit melancholic the verse is, but there is that side to life too.

While shaving for work tonight, the razor slipped on ths smig, and out of shape, it had to come off. I think it takes a few years off of myself, but does not make the hair any blacker.

Id one done by a Flemish artist some years back in Faro in Portugal, whose life story was a kin to Picasso. He was a talented artist and draughtsman, who suffered a nervous breakdown, and threw everything away and now wanders Europe as a street artist. The chap who done mine is from Melbourne, and has a page Colours on the Pavements and folk stopped and looked as it was been drawn…

The Thomas Kinsella poem that was used in our chapbook title “Mirror in February” came to mind, and while we used for the chapbook title the words “Under the fading lamp”, I used the last few as the introductory lines to the verse I had written.

It has been quite a year, and quite a few eventful years, and its good sometimes to take stock from where we have come, and acknowledge that it has taken quite a bit out of us, but we coped reasonably well. Such is the trials of life, and I hope the years to come will be a bit calmer!



Flight of Mad Sweeney

"Suibhne" by Hanna Tuulikki 2013

“Suibhne” by Hanna Tuulikki 2013

He flies over where the Devil could not walk
Singing his mournful song of despair
The places he has been and all he as seen
Since he came to here from there.

He rages at a land of lust
To the crying skies above
Whose raindrops wash his teardrops
As the mourns the death of love.

Sooner he be alone mourn the death of love
Than jump joyous in the lustful arms of chance
Which change, the faces and the smiles
According to the music to which they dance.

The songs he sings of loves never had
Loves unwanted, unreturned, untried and true
Is not love at all, love is a cup broken
Not delph on a shelf that the floor never knew.

In rage so cried against the bell
That rang from hill to water
The cleric decreed as sin mans desire
Of lust and love for another mans daughter

Silent spoken the words uttered in spell
To wander the world wide
To be as clad with feathers or none at all
Till a spear pierces his side.

As his spear, in anger cast from hand
For being blessed by water pierced the psalter
So shall he be, and his death meet
On earths wild stony altar.

For code resisted as not his
Condemned as great the shame
Learned not to hate so wont know love
At least from those who carry the flame.

For all he knows or thinks he knows
For all the verse he writes
From yew tree to the non listening birds
The bard of the Feathers recites.

So he kept their laws though not his nature
He desired respect from them, his pride
Kept him a slave to all he hated
Was a prisoner of their rules caged inside.

He rages at the principles forgotten
He who against principles always rebelled
As foolish as the woe-filled forester
Who mourns the trees he felled.

He wails of times now past when men without complaining
Struggled by through life with less
Knowing its a tale of his own he is telling
If he honestly does confess

The takes to the air above the river
Ruing those who no longer follow life’s set rules
When what he rues is following them himself and life losing
He flies away, chiding the wise as fools..



Mankind and His Pets Are the Same

Our Housemates in Renmore... the stray cats!

Our Housemates in Renmore… the stray cats!

The cat wanders where it will
The time and its prey to fill
When of it and you its had it fill
It goes its merry way.

The dog it follows: its that they do
Seeks to please and be pleased by you
Its abilities are many: its needs are few
To be loved: to eat: to play.

We are like them, the dog and the cat
Sometimes like both, depending where we are at
We are but mere creatures seeking comfort for all that
Mankind thinks himself, and yet:

For all that we think we, that we are we claim
It seems bizarre: its such a shame
We treat those we seek as partners the same
Yet don’t understand the needs of each pet.