An Féar Gorta [Terence Winch]

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An Féar Gorta

 

If I ever go back home again, we will drive

through the countryside just as it is getting dark.

We will gather together in the town’s only hotel,

eating, and telling jokes at each other’s expense.

 

My heart beats steady there, my spirit alive

to every gesture, every glance, the fire and spark

we find in those we love. Those to whom we tell

our dark secrets along with our idiotic nonsense.

 

Whatever route I take, I always seem to get lost.

I have a tendency to choose the wrong road

to the wrong place. I wind up confused and stranded

wondering if I’ll ever make it home.

 

But I want that ticket back, no matter what the cost.

At An Féar Gorta I want that rhubarb tart a la mode.

I am even willing to stand in the rain, and be reprimanded

for the sorry, soggy state in which I’ve left this poem.

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                                  at An Féar Gorta with cousins Monica (Guthrie) Donovan and Mary Guthrie, Oct. 2013

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An Féar Gorta is one of my favorite eating establishments in the world. Located in Ballyvaughan, in County Clare, Ireland, where I have many beloved relations, it is a place, as the poem suggests, that I look forward to visiting again. 

I originally thought the term meant "the hungry man," as "fear" is “man” in Irish. But the fada (accent) confused me---instead of "fear," it's "féar," which means “grass.” So, the name translates to "The Hungry Grass," a term going back to the Famine. More information can be found here, here, and here.

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                                      the garden at An Féar Gorta. Photo by T. Winch

Comments

[Martin Stannard]

Really cool poem. The food looks pretty good too.

[clarinda]

Oh! This poem has made me hungry as well as happy. Happy on so many levels, ranging from the beauty of the poem to the beauty of your reading to the beauty of the Coast Road where Michael Egan and I constantly got lost on purpose. The beauty of refuge at a Gaeltalcht-only inn at the tip of Achill Island for a night of listening to glorious rambunctious storm. Oh. I am homesick. I am salivating. Thank you!

[clarinda]

PS Just made a rhubarb tart for a highly Germanic friend's birthday "cake." Rhubarb tart is my go-to thing, courtesy of the German side of my family; I had no idea it was also an Irish thing.

[Terence Winch]

Thanks for that tasty comment, Clarinda.

[Maureen]

Hats Off all around!! And I love learning some Irish to boot!!

[Terence Winch]

  Míle buíochas, a Mháirín

[Peter Kearney]

No reprimand, Terence. The poem says all that needs to be said about your own longings and those you awaken in our memories.

[Phyllis Rosenzweig]

Nice, Terence.

[Michael Whelan]

I wind up confused and stranded
wondering if I’ll ever make it home.

I’d say I learned from you, Terence, that being confused and stranded is often the right wrong road to making a fine poem – worth all the “wondering if I’Il ever make it home”. And then you wind up landing home again with another poetic rhubarb tart a la mode!

[Michael Whelan]

I wind up confused and stranded
wondering if I’ll ever make it home.

I’d say I learned from you, Terence, that being confused and stranded is often the right wrong road to making a fine poem – worth all the “wondering if I’Il ever make it home”. And then your do make it home again with another poetic rhubarb tart a la mode!

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, Michael. Stay baffled!----that's my motto.

[Susan Francis Campbell]

This is beyond moving. And it has such a ring of truth.

[Terence Winch]

Ms. Campbell: Thanks so much for that comment.

[Indran Amirthanayagam]

Terence your poem is chaste, careful, and respectful in tone towards the mother country. And it is universal in its memory of food, for you the rhubarb tart, and for me a lamprey. And for tha next fellow an apple strudel. The sorry soggy state is an endearing line but I don' quite believe it. The poem plucks on the heart's strings without shame. No need for rain to add special effects. Well done. Indran

[Terence Winch]

Thanks for that comment, Indran.

[Eamonn Wall]

Great poem by Terence Winch. Loved it. Yes, those Irish fadas can carry quite a punch.

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, Eamonn. Great to hear from you.

[Eileen]

This is a beautiful, heartfelt poem. The pictures make it even more appealing. Your niece, Hannah would love that rhubarb tart!

[Dr. Earle Hitchner]

I wonder if the rhubarb tart a la mode for Terence is in some way as taste-evocative as a madeleine for Proust. To my mind and muse, Terence's "An Féar Gorta" summons a similar magisterial and wistful power found in Seamus Heaney’s “Postscript,” a sixteen-line ode to the mysterious emotional undertow also found in County Clare. What Terence feels in his poem (“My heart beats steady there, my spirit alive / to every gesture, every glance”), Heaney feels in his poem (“big soft buffetings … catch the heart off guard and blow it open”). Terence’s poem sticks to the top of my palate (blame his delicious tart) and to the innermost chamber of my heart (blame his scribal skill). “An Féar Gorta” makes my mouth and eyes water. No more wondering if you’ll ever find your way home, Terence. You did. Thanks for taking us with you.

[Terence Winch]

Earle: thanks so much for this response to the poem.