NEW YEAR'S GIFTS from Ardboe to the Bucket

The last day of 2018 brought a couple of unexpected gifts and I want to celebrate them here.

The first gift came via the internet and was a request from someone  I did not know to publish a poem that my mother had published  many years ago in "The POET'S Corner" of the Pawtucket Times.  This woman whom I did not know was asking  me as the poet's daughter and the supposed holder of copyright to  give permission  to publish it in Ireland on the COUNTY TYRONE Heritage site.

This request  would have pleased my mother and I felt her spirit hovering over us and bringing these things to pass. 

 I was so  glad to think that people in Ireland would be once again reading my mother's tribute to her first cousin.
We discovered Johnny Devlin--his mother and my mother's father Joe Coleman were brother and sister -- there when we went looking for what we feared were lost family connections in Ardboe in County Tyrone in Northern Ireland. They opened their homes to us. My mother had loved watching and being included in the hereditary fisherman's life that they were still continuing on the Banks of Lough Neagh--the largest  lake in the British Isles. Lough Neagh is the place where eels returned every season and where  fishermen  for centuries since the time of  Saint Colmain and millennia before harvested on those shores.

Here is the poem _

An Ardboe Fisherman

Fisherman, loyal son of Ardboe

Reared by the shores of Lough Neagh

Poverty – ever your constant foe

Long ago caused you to stray.

Homesick – you returned to the old town

Walked to the diamond once more

Stood by the old cross of world renown

Vowed – never to leave this shore.

Out on the boat at the break of day

To haul in lines and the catch

Many a time you worked without pay

Bringing home a scanty batch.

Riding from Cookstown you’d fall asleep

Get soaked with the late night rain

Your old horse trudging hills low and steep

Till he brought you home again.

In your twilight years you sit and dream

Of those days when you were young

How you weathered the gales of life’s stream

And all your songs have been sung.

Daily you watch the sun rise and set

On the lough you love so dear

Able yet – to untangle life’s net

As you start another year.

Margaret Jenckes, Pawtucket, Rhode Island, USA

I love the fact that it is a perfect poem for New Years.  The poet imagines the fisherman untangling life's net  to prepare for the new year. 

When we had  visited and found our family on the lough shores, we did witness the daily routine of setting out vast nets with lines and baited hooks.Then when the catch was  drawn in the fishermen also  spent long hours sitting and untangling the lines and getting them ready to put out again.

In her poem Margaret imagines it as a metaphor for what we all do on a New Year's Eve-- reviewing the past and making the resolves and setting the goals for the coming year.
Of course, I sent  back an affirmative and the  person then   said that she thought that we were related.  I think she is right, and  again my mother has  brought the family that was lost to each other back together through her poetry. I hope that in the New Year I get to meet and speak to Mary Jarvis. 

 I was charmed when I first understood that the Irish I met in Ardboe used the word friend to mean family.

Never too late  in life to meet and  cherish a new FRIEND.

Christmas Memory

CHRISTMAS WAS ALWAYS A MIXED BAG

I have already written about  the ways that my Aunt Grace provided  the food for our Thanksgiving and also our Christmas feasts.  But there is so much more to  Christmas than the  big meal which is really the entire focus of Thanksgiving.

We had various ways of preparing for Christmas.We thought a lot about Advent.  I also tried to go to daily mass.  Devotional aspects of the season increased after my father's departure in 1953.

Even before that sad event we celebrated or at least I did by saving whatever money I had and buying Xmas gifts.  Our gifts to each other were  not very glamorous. I would pace around Grants and Woolworth's looking at lipsticks for my Aunt Anna and  a perfume for my mother. I got my sisters paddle balls one year and that was a big hit. They could  play with them quite successfully. I had seen them borrow those of other kids, and I knew they could make the ball bounce off the paddle.
 I remember that when my friend Lucille came over to see  my tree and gifts and she looked at the three piles of  gifts that we had opened--one for each of us children. They were almost identical--pajamas, underwear, a new robe, socks. She said, "I see that you have a very practical Xmas." My mother laughed and my Aunt Anna said that she was rude. She was not, she was just being truthful.
We did not get toys. None of us cared about dolls.The only thing that I got that my sisters did not get would be paper doll books and coloring books. Our stockings were filled with an orange and an apple and some walnuts in the shell. Also sometimes hair ribbons or hair clips.
One winter I  had complained to my Aunt Grace that I had to wear some cast off hockey skates of Lucille's brother when we went to the  Blue Pond to skate.  I was amazed when new  lovely white figure skates showed up under the tree for me.There was no giver's name--these were from Santa.  My mother  warned me  not to whine anymore to  my Aunt Grace and I  knew what that meant.
Aunt Grace was always  my secret Santa.  
When  my father was still with us, I do recall some  sudden eruption of a great gift--like a tricycle. Later when I was about six, he brought in a large and gorgeous doll house. Somehow, there was some suggestion of  scandal  about these gifts--that he had won them in a card game or even stolen them.

 I remember that one Christmas morning he reached under his pillow and took out a small box and in it was a gold cross very plain and simple on a gold chain.  I still have that cross.

A SORT OF CHRISTMAS LETTER

TO: ANYONE WHO READS THIS

FROM: SOMEONE WHO WENT NOWHERE BUT  MADE MANY JOURNEYS


I guess that my friend Philippe did me a favor by sending to me a long Christmas letter that detailed his many trips, cruises and excursions of the past year.  It made me think--I cannot  write a  Xmas letter because I have gone nowhere.
 Really, Norma, nowhere? 

Time for an attitude adjustment.
  Then I corrected myself because following the promptings of the Holy Spirit  and with that Grace, I have explored new inner  territory and  sailed to  distant shores of the imagination.

Emily Dickinson knew about that kind of exploration and wrote about it so well as  she wrote about so many things

There is no Frigate like a Book (1286)

BY EMILY DICKINSON

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry –

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll –

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul –

There is a line written by Pablo Neruda that comes to my mind here: "then I know that there are immense expanses hidden from us." Our creative impulses are the articulation in our lives of that mystery.  They provide a glimpse into the IMMENSE EXPANSES  that are hidden behind the trembling veil of appearances.

I feel most blessed  because in 2018 I did not spend any time in a hospital or rehab place or nursing home,

That feels like a major achievement.

I did manage to make regular additions to this blog.  And I did explore several new areas  and wrote entries about  those  topics.

I created a poetry workshop for the Galway Kinnell Poetry Festival  on the topic "POETS WHO CHANGED THE WORLD"

 I participated in a poetry reading at the Stillwater Bookstore in downtown Pawtucket as  part of the  poetry festival

.I continued my monthly poetry exchange with the wonderful poet Andrea Scarpino. Her comments help me to improve my work. And her  bold experiments in form and subject matter inspire me to try new things.

I continued to explore poetry written in several forms  that are popular in other countries --the ghazal, the sijo, and the  haiku.

I published ten new ghazals  online on THE GHAZAL PAGE or in  print in EASTERN STRUCTURES.

I published  four ghazals in a marvelous literary journal NINE MILE.

My ghazal "Howl in Pawtucket circa 1959"  won first prize and will be  featured in the POETRYINMOTION  poems on buses in January 2019 on RIPTA.

I completed a collection of poetry which uses the traditional forms of the sonnet, the villanelle and the sestina to express  my grief over the death of a beloved friend.

Tentative title  "A FORMAL FEELING COMES" Also inspired by a Dickinson poem:

After great pain, a formal feeling comes – (372)

BY EMILY DICKINSON

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –

The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –

The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’

And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?

The Feet, mechanical, go round –

A Wooden way

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –

Regardless grown,

A Quartz contentment, like a stone –

This is the Hour of Lead –

Remembered, if outlived,

As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –

First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –

That is something that I never could get a handle on:
THE LETTING GO.

Not my style of grieving, with the continued  guidance of the Holy Spirit and the mother's help of the Most Blessed Mary and Saint Brigid, I hold on and push on.

STILL SINGING IN THE BUCKET

DUM VIVO CANO

In 2011  I went to my first Mowry family reunion held in Woonsocket. My family has close ties to Woonsocket..  I have  often gone to Oak Hill cemetery when I was  a child, brought there by my father's sister, my Aunt Grace Jenckes. She was extremely faithful in  decorating and caring for the graves of her family.  My father's mother was Ida Mowry and her grave is in a small cemetery in Cumberland on  Dexter Street.  It was my Aunt Grace, who died in  2000 at the age of 90, and her Aunt Almira Barlow  who did the research on all the Union soldiers buried there and convinced the town of Cumberland that they should at least mow the grass and  keep the grave sites accessible to those of us who still want to honor our dead.
  
Aunt Grace and Auntie Barlow won a large victory, and I was impressed by their determination and  insistence on doing the right thing.  Grace Jenckes  was a person of high standards, and much as I try to imitate her, I always feel that she was always light years ahead of me in so many ways.  

I only wish that I had known about them and gone to Mowry reunions with my Aunt Grace, but I did get to go with another dear and faithful family member, my cousin Louise,  her grandfather was the brother of my grandmother Ida.

One of the great things that I learned at the reunion is that the Mowry family motto is the Latin tag  DUM VIVO, CANO which is translated--"While I live, I sing." 

This  motto moved me because it speaks to my desire to express myself more fully and more creatively before I die. An  Irish friend once said to me "You must fiddle the tune that is in you."  And  that is  another way of saying that we all have something to say.
Don't let anyone shut  you down or shame you. We have the right even the duty to ourselves to give expression to the unique message that only we with our unique DNA  have brought to the earth. Creativity is one of the reasons for our very existence. 

I find this  insistence that we are all creative to be very comforting and stirring. I have often spent much energy and intelligence and creativity interpreting the  writings of others--that's what it means to  be a person who professes literature. But  I always  felt  a longing to express myself more directly.  I guess that is the  reason for this blog also   Finally, as of 30 November 2012--I was no longer teaching. It took me that long from 1966 to 2012 to reach the state of being fully retired, I was pressured by  the facts of my own declining health; and the need to provide care for my Aunt Anna.  That reality of care giving  made me  finally understand  how limited and unpredictable our life on earth is.

I would like to spend some time before I die discerning and expressing as fully and clearly as I  can  the unique  message that the Creator placed in me.

  Just as he placed a message in each of you, dear reader. That is what is new about each of us and what we are here  to discover and share. 

 Let's get on with the show--while we live we can sing.

SPORTS GRAB BAG

Watching games and not sure what I am seeing.

Saw the Duke game the other night against Princeton and wondered why that pairing. Funny that the DUKE wonder ZION  was lethargic and unable to land a basket for the first ten minutes of play.  I wondered if he had overslept or something.  Or maybe they don't get to practice when they are playing so many games.  And why did Princeton want to play Duke? I asked my husband as we watched, and he said  because they could brag that they had been defeated  by DUKE --not just Brown or Yale.
We also watched a heartbreaking Syracuse  game against Buffalo and Buffalo pulled it off --first time they have done so well since 1930.  Can that be  true?
I do not watch the Celtics as much because it is too much the KYRIE show. And I  rarely see the Lakers or LeBron. So my emotional attachment to basketball is not there yet,

AMAZINGLY, I find for the first time I am actually worried about the PATRIOTS!! 
Especially with today's news that Josh Gordon is stepping away from the game to deal with his mental illness.
WOW.  I did  not see that coming.  And Gordon has brought a lot of talent to the team and made some  crucial plays.
I hope Bill is on the phone and hiring someone  as good or better  to help the team  in this  important part of the season.  

AM I THE ONLY PERSON WHO CAN ADMIT THAT I MISS  AARON?

Winter Solstice in the Bucket

THE LONGEST DARK TIME OF THE YEAR

That is today and tomorrow.

Time to toss out the burdens of the past and time to clear the decks for action in the New Year.
That is what  the Winter solstice is to us.  It is the energy of  the  darkness in a battle with the energy of light. It is the pivot that the planet and the sun stand upon and  hold their position. For a brief stasis -- the time of the longest night-- and then the days minute by minute  gain time and light increases until it crests in the longest daylight day of the Summer Solstice . 

These days of extreme darkness and light were central to Celtic life and were probably observed by most of humankind.

It is not an accident that the date for the birth of Jesus was set at December 25.  It once was celebrated in Spring but then the Pagans--name for non- Christians-- still celebrated the  turning from darkness to light of the SOLSTICE.  After all, early humans saw the increasing darkness and death of leaves and plants as a cause for anxiety--they were not certain when the light would return to bless the world again.  Stonehenge in England and the Great  Mounds at  the Boyne in Ireland are two sites that mark that departure and return.
And since Jesus was the LIGHT OF THE  WORLD-- then it seemed that He must have come when the  light slowly comes  back.
  

THERE ARE MANY RITUALS IN HOUSE HOLDS.THAT STILL REFLECT THESE CELESTIAL EVENTS. 

Numerous customs involving the use of incense have survived. Traditionally, there are three occasions to "smoke out" the house: Christmas Eve, New Year's Eve and the evening before Epiphany, which marks the last day of the Christmas celebrations. On these occasions, all people living in a house walk ritually from room to room and burn incense and certain herbs, while the head of the household speaks prayers. 

On farms, stables and animals are included in the round. Sometimes consecrated water is sprinkled in the rooms. The use of fire and water hints at a purification ritual.

Around this time of the year there is generally a liberal use of lights and candles. I often notice that people don't just put candles up because it is dark. It seems to be somehow culturally ingrained to do so, and I guess that these customs are remains of light rituals reaching back further than we might imagine.

Almost gone are the wassailing customs, where the head of the farm would bless the fruit trees and pour them a libation of wine. This should induce the tree to bear rich fruit in summer. There was and still is much baking going on, especially of Christmas cookies. Sometimes they still come in traditional shapes, especially Sun shapes.

The deities of Alban Arthan the Celtic name for the WINTER SOLSTICE are the Dagda and Brighid. 
Brighid is the bearer of the flame of inspiration, which penetrates the darkness of mind and soul, just as the light of the reborn Sun penetrates the darkest time of the year. The cauldron of the Dagda is a symbol for the promise, that nature will bear fruit once again and care for all beings living on Earth

The plants of Alban Arthan are in the first place mistletoe and holly, but in a wider sense all evergreen plants, e.g. spruce, fir, pine etc. The green of the plants is pleasant to the eye and symbolizes the promise of renewal and new growth.

The central and essential thought of Alban Arthan is renewal.
We let the past behind us and greet the new. The world is undergoing constant change and we must change and adjust, too, in order to be able to survive. Change is inevitable. The German poet Heinrich Heine said: "Nothing is so permanent as change". In this knowledge, humankind celebrates festivals since times unknown, giving people the opportunity to let go of the old and to embrace the new things which life would certainly hold in store.

So time to renew our friendships and our lives. With the inspiration of the GOD who came as a BABY, we can approach ourselves and make new resolves for our growth in the NEW YEAR.

CONJURING IN THE BUCKET

THE ACT OF LANGUAGE IN WRITING

Writing about something does  conjure it and gives it power.  I see that  on this blog over and over again.When I start a line of thought or memory new instances come to my mind and new avenues to explore.

Sometimes  putting something into words disarms it, and it no longer has  such power over me.  It is out there in the world--it is separate from me. No longer just in my head or darkening my soul.

Another consequence in writing about something that happened a long time ago is that it opens up some of the old memory files in my  brain. And it seems that one thing leads to another.  That is why I sometimes go back to things because  now that I have opened that old shut door in my memory other aspects of the day or time or place come forward.  I see them as glad to come into the light of day, willing to dance again and to have their story told.

Also the nature of my dreams or night time awakenings may change.  A name that I have not consciously considered for years is  some how in my head again. As if asking for some attention or hoping to have his or her story told.

I saw that most dramatically in the case of  BOBBY SANDS. His name came into my head after I wrote the blog entry on Patrick Pearse who was one of the Irish Revolutionary  poets I wanted to feature in  my Poetry Workshop on POETS WHO CHANGED THE WORLD.
I thought I was done with that,  and suddenly I awoke with an accusing  phrase in my head--"How can you not mention Bobby Sands?"
That lead me to  research and purchase books that have been written about him since his death, and to seek out collections of his poetry that were not available  while he was struggling  in a British prison.
I had been active in those days of the hunger strike, and I had cared deeply about all ten who died. However, I had not pursued that interest  after the Hunger Strike was over. 

Reading about Bobby and growing to appreciate his work as a poet, I was able to see that he fit into the ancient Irish tradition of the Bard.  Also Bobby's own favorite poet was a woman, Ethna  Carberry, who died at the beginning of the 20th century.  Looking into her work lead me to see how many Irish women poets have been overlooked and I  explored that subject. So you see how these lines of inquiry open up one into another.

EVERYTHING THAT RISES MUST CONVERGE.

We recognize that sentence as a title of a short story by Flannery O'Connor. But there is an earlier source  that makes the spiritual meaning much clearer.

Everything That Rises Must Converge refers to a work by the French philosopher Pierre Teilhard de Chardin titled the "Omega Point": "Remain true to yourself, but move ever upward toward greater consciousness and greater love! At the summit you will find yourselves united with all those who, from every direction, have made the same ascent. For everything that rises must converge."

That comforts me that our spiritual life is bringing us to a great convergence of souls who have made a similar ascent from all sorts of origins.

TAKING THE LONG COUNT IN THE BUCKET

Now it's personal--I fell down last week in the driveway and could not get up! I yelled so loud that  a neighbor came over and then she went and got another neighbor who was raking his yard. They had no problem, and as soon as I stood I could feel that my legs were weight bearing and except for a foot that had twisted under me and a  bruised tailbone, I seemed to be basically OK,

 My father was an amateur boxer and he gave me a boxer's advice when I was a little girl.  He told me to take the long count.  I used that phrase as the refrain in one of my ghazals and here it is.

Ghazal Take the Long Count

You are going to get knocked down, yes, you are.

Life will knock you down. What next? Take the long count.

You just over swing, lose your balance, catch a roundhouse.

Watch his jab, a swarmer applied the brake: the long count.

Tripped yourself up, it feels like Kid Gavilan pounding.

Then you meet the canvas. Piece of cake, the long count.

Don't jump to your feet to show that you can. Surprise!

That was just a stumble, a little mistake—the long count.

No, stay there, lay still, you deserve a rest, breathe.

Relax, think of Tunney and Dempsey, fake their long count.

When he reaches “eight”, begin to get up very slowly.

Stand, shuffle a bit, just stand don't shake the long count.

The ref looks you over, check you out, don't rush to the guy.

He waits in the neutral corner, now forsake the long count.

Make him come to you, he's dying to finish you off.

All done with dying, Norma, you're awake- the long count.


Yes, I am in recovery mode which is my version of the long count in daily life.
I do feel better now that a  few days have passed. My foot and tailbone are not aching as much and my back is more normal. But I do feel compromised. I have not been outside since it happened because I'm wary of the concrete stairs coming into the house. I also am going to enforce my  habits of getting home way before twilight. 

I still had my personal trainer Ed come on the next day.  It was a temptation to cancel, but then I decided that even if  I did not do as much as usual, it would be better if  he saw me and could see the extent of the change.

In a funny way the enforced pause has made me more a part of ADVENT. We have a little living tree an Alberta Spruce.  I ordered it from Breck's gifts complete with tiny lights and  wooden birds as decorations.  No need to plug it in, it has its own battery pack and switch.

Today the feeling of exhaustion has left.  I do feel relieved also because the down time has enabled me to get my Xmas shopping finished online.
THAT SEEMS LIKE A MIRACLE TO ME!

A WINNER IN THE BUCKET!

I have to tell this good news to somebody!
So I guess I will tell my blog readers. I only know some of you personally, but my statistics now say that over the years you number in the thousands, and that makes you special to me.

So here goes nothing-- Yesterday I received a phone call from Tina Cane, the Poet Laureate of Rhode Island. She called to tell me that I had won the poetry in motion RIPTA contest. The  poem selected will be on the RIPTA buses during the month of January.
I was surprised and really thrilled,  I had sent in an entry in November at the suggestion of Patti McAlpine, the poet who organized the Galway Kinnel Poetry Festival in Pawtucket.

I  submitted three poems in three different forms: a sonnet, a linked  sijo and a contemporary ghazal (pronounce guzzle). I like to play with traditional forms because they are so rich, and they must continue to sing in our own times with contemporary content and not be seen as relics of the past.

The poem that won is a poem about Pawtucket. It is actually an homage to a great classic poem of American modernism, HOWL by Allen Ginsberg. I used a line from that poem: "I am with you in Rockland" becomes the refrain of my ghazal "I am with you in Pawtucket".

WELL HERE IS THE WINNER!!

GHAZAL HOWL IN PAWTUCKET-- Circa 1959

I trembled as I sneaked a smoke with O'Dowl, I am with you in Pawtucket.

A leather-jacketed boy with a scowl, I am with you in Pawtucket.

On the Bridge I feared some gossip, who knew my mother, was sitting

spying from the bus, cheek and jowl, I am with you in Pawtucket.

Me standing there: cigarette dangling, blue uniform skirt rolled

thigh high, turtleneck my only cowl, I am with you in in Pawtucket.

Hiding my Catholic school badge, mouth smeared with white lipstick.

Eyes outlined in kohl like a baby owl, I am with you in Pawtucket.

Where is little Lucille, who would skate with me those cold starry nights?

At the Blue Pond we were on the prowl, I am with you in Pawtucket.

Where is Roland-- red sweater, white '51 Ford with fairy fringe?

All dazzling smiles, jokes, no scowl. I am with you in Pawtucket.

That boy I met in the Back lots showed me where he hunted.

Seeking flints, shard of Indian bowl. I am with you in Pawtucket.

Oh,we married for a while; our son called last night.So where am I?

I read Bronte; hear Heathcliff's yowl, I am with you in Pawtucket.

First and Last Chance to walk past Peerless, Shartenberg's,Windsor.

The LeRoy for a late show--one last howl, I am with you in Pawtucket.

Stroll up Broad to Warner's Ballroom, sounds of “Harlem Nocturne”.

Blues sax paints the world, mirror ball rolls, I am with you in Pawtucket.

Speckled light on gingham, your cheek pressed to mine.“This is our song.

Norma, it'll always be our song,” you growl. I am with you in Pawtucket.

THE WRECK OF THE EDMUND FITZGERALD--BOBBY SANDS'' FAVORITE

I woke up ten mornings ago with these lyrics  repeating in my head and I thought--that wreck must have happened in NOVEMBER  and it did.

NOVEMBER 10, 1975

Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

Music and lyrics ©1976 by Gordon Lightfoot

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down 
of the big lake they called "Gitche Gumee."
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
when the skies of November turn gloomy.
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty,
that good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
when the "Gales of November" came early. 

The ship was the pride of the American side
coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
with a crew and good captain well seasoned,
concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
when they left fully loaded for Cleveland.
And later that night when the ship's bell rang,
could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
and a wave broke over the railing.
And ev'ry man knew, as the captain did too
'twas the witch of November come stealin'.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
when the Gales of November came slashin'.
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
in the face of a hurricane west wind.

When suppertime came the old cook came on deck

Sayin' "Fellas, it's too rough t'feed ya."
At seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in; he said,

(**2010 lyric change: At 7 p.m., it grew dark, it was then he said,)

"Fellas, it's bin good t'know ya!"
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
and the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when 'is lights went outta sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does any one know where the love of God goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
if they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er.
They might have split up or they might have capsized;
they may have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
in the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams;
the islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below Lake Ontario
takes in what Lake Erie can send her,
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
with the Gales of November remembered.

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed,
in the "Maritime Sailors' Cathedral."
The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times
for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they call "Gitche Gumee."
"Superior," they said, "never gives up her dead
when the gales of November come early!"

PROBABLY ONE OF THE GREATEST NARRATIVE SONGS WRITTEN in the 20TH CENTURY, THIS BALLAD DELIGHTED AND INSPIRED BOBBY SANDS
PLAY IT ON  YOU TUBE BY GORDON LIGHTFOOT.  It will stay in your head for days.

SO now I am reminded by the great  biography of Bobby Sands JUST AN UNFINISHED SONG  by O'Hearn which relates how Bobby loved this ballad and thought that it was the greatest song that told a story.  He sang it aloud during the prison protest and he taught it to the other men who were  imprisoned with  him.

  He confided to "The Dark", his comrade Hughes, that he wanted to write a  song about the Irish struggle to the same tune as the Edmund Fitzgerald.  He did that as O'Hearn relates that one night when they were having a sing song to keep up morale one of the other prisoners asked Bobby to sing The Wreck. 
Bobby said that he had been putting new words to it.
Then he sang THE VOYAGE a song about United Irish  prisoners who were being transported to Tasmania on a ship called The Gull.

Here are some of the lyrics that Bobby sets to the tune of The Wreck:
It was 1803 when we sailed out to sea
And away from the sweet town of Derry
For Australia bound and if we didn't drown
The mark of the  fetter we'd carry.

Here is another verse that ties together the United Irishmen and the Blanketmen:

In our own smelling slime we were lost for a time
Hoping God in his mercy would claim us
But our spirits shone high like the stars in the sky
We were rebels and no man would tame us.

Try singing these words to the tune of the Wreck and you will  see how well they fit.

Bobby was able to pass from life through suffering  to death with so much grace because he had the certainty of a martyr.
He knew that his cause, the cause of Irish Freedom,  was just and the British Imperial  claim was unjust and would be judged so by History and by God.