ON REACHING 70

 

My father and I aged 8 months in June 1957

(Old B&W picture cleaned up and coloured by my brother using AI)

ON REACHING 7O

 

Three score and ten,

An odyssey;

Seven times;

An end-in-itself, they say.

 

On reaching Ithaca,

Memories,

While I still remember,

Of demons and angels,

Mistakes and victories:

To own, to have learnt from,

To recall without irony,

Cynicism or hate.

 

My children’s birth,

And my birthing of many,

Each precious, unique

Moment in time,

Baptised with tears,

Of joy.

 

To have loved

And been loved;

To have wandered

Amongst Sassanians,

Circassians, Armenians,

Seljuks and Kurds.

On an Indian Ocean isle,

Incense and Dragon’s blood;

That filled the perfumed niches

Of a palace in Isfahan.

 

n exhalation of my wonder,

Of what had gone before.

 

On a ferry across the Euphrates

To Diyarbakir

With the tobacco traders;

I inhaled deeply

Gave thanks

Then found my way home;

Prodigal:

Forgiveness,

From the real heart.

Seventy;

 

An end perhaps?

Perhaps not?

 

Blessed by a family,

Who put up with,

Miasmic mists,

But also,

When the westerlies blew,

A father’s and husband’s love;

Setting them free.

 

Oh! 

The celebration of watching

My grandsons grow up

Into beautiful men,

Pam would have approved.

My mother died at seventy-one:

Ithaca plus one.

We had to let her go

Into that beyond

Where her faith led her.

 

And the rational me

Cannot follow;

Yet somehow in this world,

All at present seems irrational,

So, who really knows?

POTIONS, SPELLS AND MEMORIES AMONGST THE NIGHTSHADES OF BARNA WOODS

 

It is that time of year when walking through my local Barna Woods with the dogs most often means a meandering journey home through a botanical lexicon; plain plants, native and escaped clothed in common yet exotic names: selfheal, pink sorrel, scarlet and yellow pimpernel, cranesbill, pennywort, hedge woundwort, milkwort and nipplewort, rose campion, stonecrop, redshank, loosestrife, bindweed, spotted-orchid, thale cress, hogweeds, crane’s-bill, meadowsweet, tutsan, and valerian envelop you. The list goes on and yet, for me at least, the Nightshades signpost the late June odyssey. From the shade-loving, weed-like and almost apologetic Enchanter’s to the hesitant but confident, white-flowered Black and the more assertive and proud purple and yellow-flowered Woody or Bittersweet, the Nightshades real and imagined, cast the greatest spells.

 

ENCHANTER'S NIGHTSHADE

Enchanter’s Nightshade or Circaea lutetiana (in Irish Fuinseagach, linking it to the ash or Fuinseog in Irish because of the similarity of the leaves) flowers between May and August and is a native plant belonging to the evening primrose family. Leafless, erect but delicate hairy stems up to 30cms bearing small white and occasionally pink-tinged flowers arise from heavily veined heart-shaped leaves supported by a creeping rootstock. 

 

The plant derives its Enchanter’s name from the supposed witches-brew the goddess Circe gave to Odysseus’ men to turn them into pigs. Joyce in Ulyssess’ Circe chapter has Stephen Deadulus and Leopold Bloom visit the brothel of the “Circe” and “massive whoremistress” Bella Cohen. In the chapter both experience hallucinations unlocking their sub-consciousness and where multiple characters in the book are “transformed”. In Homer’s Ulysses when Circe eventually releases Odysseus’ men from their pigsty they are transformed back into younger-looking and taller men.

 

Carl Linnaeus named the plant such in 1753 and linked the witches brew element to Lutetia, the ancient name for Paris, a city infamous in Europe for its late 17^thCentury “Affair of the Poisons” where “enchantresses” like La Voisin and Maire Bosse manipulated (and murdered) upper class members of society with occult and black-magic practices. Enchanter’s Nightshade is not poisonous and is not linked botanically to the sometimes very poisonous Atropa Nightshade genus. I like to think of its pretence, is suggestibility; a single word rather than a potion unlocking the sub-conscious.

 

On either side of the tarmacadamed sinusoidal path that bisects the woods can be found flowering two different species of real Nightshade.

 

European Black Nightshade

The European Black Nightshade or Solanum nigrum is a member of the Solanaceae family which also includes tomatoes, potatoes and eggplant. It has a small five-petalled white flower surrounding bright yellow anthers. Its berries turn black and form in a cluster unlike its cousin, the toxic deadly nightshade Atropa belladonna, where the similar black berries grow individually. Atropa’s flowers are purple and the plant contains multiple tropane alkaloids including atropine and scopolamine which are highly poisonous and hallucinogenic. The toxicity of the s.nigrum plant, which sometimes can be fatal to animals and occasionally children, lies in the Solanine glycoalkaloid toxin found in all parts of the plant but in greatest concentration in immature green berries. Levels vary between different strains (red-berried strains are edible) and growing conditions and therefore difficult to predict. 

 

I find this part of the walk a trip down memory lane. I was going to say nostalgic but nostalgia is a compound word derived from the Greek for homecoming nostos and pain, álgos and these memories were pleasureable.

 

In 1980, the summer after the fall of Kampala in the Uganda-Tanzanian War that forced Idi Amin into exile, I worked in a mission hospital in Dareda near Manyara in north-western Tanzania. Of the staff working there with the Medical Missionaries of Mary was a very formidable and very capable nurse-anaesthetist who was a member of the local Cushitic-speaking people, the Iraqw. The rumour, probably circulated to ensure that none of us “temporary” medical blow-ins annoyed her, was that she had done-away with her first husband. I once asked Fr Louie the local priest about this when we were driving back the rutted roads up the escarpment from a soccer-match against our bitter rivals in Babati. Louis from further south in Tanzania had been trained into the priesthood in Thurles, Co. Tipperary by the Pallottines and still spoke English (one of his seven languages) with a thick North Riding accent. He laughed and said that the reason for the local mythology was probably more prosaic than that. He then explained that the Iraqw people used an edible species of Nightshade (mnafu in Kiswahili) as a green vegetable and served it with a type of corn porridge called ugali. Given that its cousin the Atropa belladonna Nightshade provided many of the drugs our nurse-anaesthetist used in her work people probably elaborated the story. I never did find out from Louis how her first husband had died but in the area south of us at Singida there was still rumours of a “Lion Man” being used to settle scores. (See an earlier 2011 blog: https://deworde.blogspot.com/2011/03/rihla-journey-18-mt-hanang-tanzania.html)

 

WOODY or BITTERSWEET NIGHTSHADE

The other Nightshade plant across the other side of the path in the woods is far more showy. With its exuberant drooping indigo and yellow flowers, it flowers from June to September and berries start appearing in August. This is the Bittersweet or Woody Nightshade classified as Solanum dulcamera. There are as many as 22 common alternative English-usage names for the plant of which 6 allude to the plant’s potentially poisonous nature. It is a climbing vine-like plant that produces bright red berries that are highly poisonous. 

 

Of interest to the witch-potions associated with Enchanter’s Nightshade in the Middle Ages the Bittersweet Nightshade plant was thought to ward off witches and evil spirits when hung as a garland around the neck. However it had to be, like its cousin Atropa handled carefully. Early writers such as Aldhelm of Malmesbury (c. 660 CE) describe the plant causing bouts of insanity or hallucinations. The fruit is said to have a sweet aftertaste hence the name Bittersweet to combine its sweet and bitter toxic properties. Dulcamera is a combination of the Latin dulcis or sweet and amarus meaning bitter. The genus name is Solanum derives from solamen which means soothing or comforting.

 

Onward to Ithaca and home, sweet memories.

THE YELLOW ROSE GARDEN

 

THE YELLOW ROSE GARDEN

Golestān-e Zard

 

 

Yellow

In the morning gloam, there is, at first, silence.

The sea fog lingers and like spectral ships

Bog cotton heads sag as moisture 

Drips.

Then out of the mist, a coloured gleam,

*ǵʰelh₃ -, yellow's root from Badakhshan skips,

West, with merchants' lapis lazuli and language 

Trips.

 

Yellow

Vibrant Gorse with coconut scent

Pulling the warped boreen ajar

Above the fog a seldom heard churring call

ṣfr.

Arabic root for a pale colour, also a void

To whistle; an unseen nightjar

Tormentil underfoot; pure gold

aṣfar.

 

Yellow,

With warming sun the fog abates.

Bird’s foot trefoil and buttercups sheath,

Meadow and creeping, and kidney vetch

Beneath. 

Along the path majestic weeds: sowthistle,

Hawksweed, dandelion and ragworth wreath

A sometime unwelcome blaze on bog myrtle’s

Heath. 

 

 

Yellow,

Once In Ériu’s wooden heart, Beltaine's speckled light

A maypole of avens and charlock train

Black medic, and black magic

Reign.

The meandering stream through bowers of imperial Iris,

Where cowslips, pimpernel, and tutsan frame

With celandine and laburnum, a golden 

Rain.

 

 

Yellow

Across ebb sands below a midden dance, hawkbit

Then silverweed, a rose by any other name array

Amongst the radishes and cabbage

Midday.

I pause, a gnomon on the landscape,

Seeking, searching, for a thruway

To a yellow rose garden of

May.

 

 

Yellow

Once, in another rose garden in Shiraz, 

I sought out Saadi’s grave; the Sufi’s rapture

Of harmony in his Gulistan, the first

Chapter

States, humans are of one soul

And a plea that their grief is your grief, fracture

When salvation upon the seas Israeli soldiers

Capture.

 

 

Yellow

In Haaretz and other stolen lands

Shavuot’s first fruits are wove,

Then savoured without Ruth’s 

Love.

Moi, a pagan pilgrim; for a pen touched

Esther and Mordecai’s tomb in a Hamadan grove,

Where Shavuot is Moed-e-Gol, a festival of flowers

Behove.

 

Yellow

I head home, a long way from Gaza, Lebanon and Iran,

Where there, as here, wild mustard blooms in grit, 

In graveyards and abandoned fields;

Sunlit.

Before dusk, before the nightjar sings;

The yellow fields of May, I quit

But hope that another morn brings a better

Writ.

(Galway, 26th may 2026)

POULNABRONE DOLMEN: THE BURREN, CO. CLARE, IRELAND.

POULNABRONE DOLMEN

 

THE 1904 GREAT GALWAY X RAYS TRIAL

 

The University of Galway kindly facilitated open access under a Creative Commons 4.0 licence for this historical article of mine, published online in the Irish Journal of Medical Science (1971- ) today.

The Link is 

https://rdcu.be/e6ADq

​​Derham-2026-IJMS - GREAT GALWAY X RAYS TRIAL.pdf

TO A GALAXY FAR AWAY... AT WINKLE SPEED!

EXPLORING THE UNIVERSE

 

ICARUS

Early morning flights into rising sun

Blackrock Diving platform, Salthill, Galway.

There is a suspended moment Icarus,

When you leave the earth's labyrinth,

To exult; in trust with me, Daedalus.

But caution son, the waxing sun beneath

Once high, becomes a furnace

And your waning plinth.

 

KEN BRUEN (3 January 1951 – 29 March 2025) : DEATH OF AN ENIGMA, A LEGEND, A FRIEND.

 

Ken performing a book launch for my publishing company

Wynkin de Worde in 2004

I first met Ken and his wife Phyl over 30 years ago now when working as an Obstetrician I delivered Grace, their beautiful daughter. A friendship was born (literally) with Grace the midwife. Over time the friendship evolved to take me on a journey of participation into the artistic, metaphysical and literary world that Ken inhabited, shared and encouraged. Beyond sharing his literary contacts and nous he was extraordinarily generous. On one occasion I ran into a tight squeeze when a bridging loan was delayed and he and Phyl offered to tide me over for the 3 days or so it took for the situation to be resolved without any form of collateral other than good wishes. Extraordinarily kind. And typical of them both.

In Grace I always saw the sometimes fragile child in Ken but in Ken I always saw the beauty and intelligence and strength that lay within Grace and which Ken drew upon for his own existence.

Grace and Ken

KEN had a PH.D in Metaphysics and a Master's in Life. The Ph.D awarded by Trinity College Dublin was in the branch of philosophy which examins the foundation principles of all our reality. Ken's crime writing, his character's and his own exploration of the abstractions of reality, were dark, grave (literally), brutal, pared back meanderings through the streets and alleyways of Galway and beyond.

On my bookshelf amongst his other books I have a copy of an early work Dispatching Baudelaire which I love and also a small monograph from the Mysterious Bookshop in New York where Ken has an interview with self about his lead character Jack Taylor. He says of himself in typical Bruen punctuation and cadence,

    "I confuse people, not deliberately but they read the books, thank god! (How Irish is that?), with the darkness, ferocity, brutality and then they meet me and I'm mellow, easy to be with, and they're a tad bewildered."

To Phyl and Grace my deepest condolences.

    "There floats out there

    The shape that I shall take when I am dead,

    My soul's first shape, a soft feathery shape,

    And is not that a strange shape for a soul

    Of a great fighting man?"

 

        WB Yeats "The Death of Cuchulain"

May Ken, the "great fighting man" finally rest in peace and at peace amongst the feathers.

GALWAY CAMERA CLUB EXHIBITION

 I joined Galway Camera Club last September and have enjoyed the weekly meetings where internal and external experts share their knowledge. It has been great fun. Here are some of my submissions to various club competitions over the first six months.

ROUNDSTONE

SHELL AND THE STRAWBERRY

DRUID LANE GALWAY

FOG-STILL MORNING BLACKROCK GALWAY

CAISLEAIN NA CIRCE (HEN'S CASTLE) LOUGH CORRIB

ROME: HOMAGE ROBERT DOISENEAU

SILVERSTRAND WINDSURFER

TINMEL MOSQUE, MOROCCO

WATER SHAPES AND SHADOWS

NORDHEK BEACH, SA

ROME PEOPLE

PALE FUNGHI & JACKSON POLLOCK

MOZARELLA FLOATERS

ATHENS FISHMARKET

STRIDERS

EANACH MHEÁIN (ANNAGHVAAN) PERIWINKLE FORAGER

HIC JACET GAZAM – HERE LIES GAZA

 

HIC JACET GAZAM (accusative case)

 

Hic jacet:

Here lies,

Where there was strength, 

Hopelessness,

A redaction of history,

The rendering of an

Abrahamic race,

A pitiless erase.

 

Hinc illae lacrimae,

Where endless tears,

Are a symptom 

Of systematic,

Annihilation,

Blood lust,

Apartheid,

And Genocide.

 

Hoc est bellum

War, 

They cry out,

They celebrate.

A clarion call

To congregate

To justify, to apply

The Beit Knesset lie.

 

Hac lege,

The law,

They declare

To an assembly of 

The dead

In the Beit Lahiya dunes

And ever haunted ruins.

 

Hic jacet,

Here lies,

Amongst the sycamore figs,

Where a father digs,

With dust tears,

And fatigue of life

For a decapitated child

And much loved wife.

 

Hinc illae lacrimae

Searing tears

For the thousands

Of innocents;

And they are:

Starved of love

Of sustenance,

And of deliverance.

 

 

Homo homini lupus,

They, the eretz wolves;

Are voracious,

Sacrificing lambs to deposit,

In the timeless layers:

A knesset of bones,

A charnel house

Of endless attribution

And retribution.

Homo sum,

I am a human being,

Haunted,

Because for Gaza

I can do nothing,

Except with these words

The wolves condemn.

Words, however, for dead children,

Are a useless requiem.