When 22-year-old Jack McDonough came from his home in Glen Beigh County Kerry to New York it was primarily to study computer science here for a semester before returning in August for continuing on to his degree at Cork University. Irish Poet
But few knew until he arrived that he brought with him a huge supply of Irish humor, unlimited friendliness, certainly the gift of gab, and the ability to easily make friends and influence people. Irish Poet
Jack spent several days in Atlantic Highlands and the Bayshore visiting with his great aunt, his grandfather’s sister, Kathleen Sweeney. He was here to share prayers and sympathy with her as both virtually attended the funeral mass for Kathleen’s sister and Jack’s great aunt, Rita Burke. Rita died in Ireland after an extended illness, and Jack did not want her sister here in America to be attending the funeral alone.
The happy-go-lucky yet serious and brilliant Irishman, in the few days since he arrived from Ireland, had already met with his cousins, Kathleen’s grandson and daughter, at the hospitals where one is a doctor the other a nurse; he had already engaged himself in a sandlot baseball game when he saw a group of men playing and asked if he could join. They welcomed him, gave him the bat, and he showed his dexterity in that sport as well.
This is his first visit to the United States, but already Jack knows he loves the people. “Everyone’s so friendly,” he enthused, ignoring the fact it’s his own friendship that brings out the best in others.
His biggest surprise, he said, is “how everything is so large!”, meaning the cars, the roads, the ferry, the meals, and just about everything else he’s encountered so far.
But always, he smiles broadly, it’s the friendship that stands out.
Living in Brooklyn for the few months he is here, Jack already knows his way around, hops on the subway or train with no fears, and knows the best, easiest and nicest way to get from Manhattan to Atlantic Highlands is via Sea Streak. “It’s so easy,” he said, “and then just a short subway ride from the ferry in New York to my apartment.”
Ask him about politics, and the diplomatic Irishman declines…politely, of course….to discuss any United States politics. “This is your country, “he says with a wag of his finger, “I’m not about to get into any discussions about any of your politics here.”
But ask him about his own, and he’ll tell you the life history of his nation’s newest Taoiseach, or prime minister, Simon Harris and all the reasons why he will be the best thing that’s happened to Ireland and a true leader who will keep the country moving forward.
Harris was recently elected to the post by a vote of parliament and at 37 years of age is the youngest leader the nation has ever had. Without any coaching or coaxing, Jack can tell you about Ireland’s three-party coalition government, the surprise resignation of Leo Varadkar last month, opening the way for Harris, a member of the Fine Gael party like his predecessor, to be to be named, and how devoted Harris is to promoting education at all levels for everybody in Ireland.
Jack can tell you how Harris loves talking to the people via social media and how he is facing the serious and soaring housing costs and influx of Ukraine citizens escaping the war in their own homeland.
But garrulous as he is, Jack declines to opinionate on American politics.
Nor does he talk about the drone he designed, part of a class assignment. Jack loves Irish history as well as its unique nature, and laments the loss of tree species, the Irish oak, that are thousands of years old and rapidly diminishing with the major construction projects that are gobbling up open space. So he chose to design a drone that can film the rare tree forests from above and enable environmentalists to pinpoint their existence in specific areas and work towards their preservation.
It’s a passion for environmental sciences that is now having Jack ponder specifically in what specialty he wants to use his computer science skills.
But there is a quieter, softer, more thoughtful part of Jack McDonough that makes the casual visitor with him remember that it must be true, the Irish, be they serious or political, dramatic or comedic, quiet or verbose, all have the gift of expression in poetry and song.
Jack is also a poet.
A lover of nature, he was moved by the grace and beauty of the animal while watching a group of penguins cavort. Knowing they are birds, and wondering why they don’t fly, it struck him while watching them. Indeed, Jack decided, penguins do fly….they simply do it in the water! And so he wrote
Penguin Tale
By: Jack McDonogh
I see you fly,
But not in the sky,
Outside the box,
Like a cunning fox.
Your wings beat water,
Through shoals of fish,
Natures torpedo,
A bliss display.
You fly in packs,
Through a world of blue,
Through tumultuous water,
You thrive.
Then again, overwhelmed and appreciative of nature in all its forms, he lay back and enjoyed the sunshine of a quiet day, then wrote:
Country Field
By: Jack McDonogh
In a country field I lay,
During the kindness of a spring day,
Lambs playing and feeling free,
Birds chirping as they should be.
I climb a hill to investigate,
The burrow of a badger or fox,
Atop of which I gaze amongst shadows,
Like sparks from a smith,
Sparks of sparrows flying in unison,
A great show.
I then look afar to a land,
A land of smoke and grime,
What could this be,
Surly not a place of our time.
Humans dominate this land,
Scarred of tar and smoke alike,
Big machines operating,
Speeding through the city lights.
Like the sparrows I know,
These humans too move in unison,
People marching amongst the buildings,
Migrating along lines of traffic,
Cluttered and chaotic.
Shocked by what I see,
I again look back,
To a land of green and great beauty,
As I watch the lambs play,
I think to myself,
Oh what magnificence it is,
To live in such a time and place,
As home.
His love for his native land, its nature, its history, its religion and the blend of all that and more is best exemplified in Inisfallen
Innisfallen
By: Jack McDonogh
I set forth on a journey,
To a land of proper and lore,
I set aboard a boat,
To the land of Saints and Scholars.
Into the morning fog,
To a mystery I set forth,
Aboard a boat we traveled an ancient path,
Along the gables of cliffs,
Along the story of earth.
Where great elk once trod,
Great deer do roam,
A seal in the lake,
Plenty of trout to chase.
A sanctuary of time,
Once the pride of Killarney,
Now a museum,
In which the heart of Ireland is kept.
After mass in the monastery I look to a mighty oak,
As I touch its bark I live,
I live a time in which still exists today,
A time of saints and scholars,
A majestic time of joy.
In his poetry, Jack also can express his sensitivities and the pain he feels for those who fall, fail, or simply choose the wrong path in life. He does not criticize, merely, lament, grieve, and offer consolation.
It’s the Irish way and Jack McDonogh brought it with him to America.;
Lost souls Irish Poet
By: Jack McDonogh
To see your presence, Irish Poet Irish Poet Irish Poet Irish Poet Irish Poet
Makes me sad,
A lie being lived,
Of only the bad.
An overused body,
Abused by mental stimulation,
Your mind corrupted by the freedom of indulgence,
A freedom trapping pit of despair.
You are greater than this confliction,
An addiction to viewing lowly forms of life,
A form of life which revolves around ignorance,
A form of life which creates nothing but shame and sadness.
To become the alcoholic of anew,
A pandemic of lust,
To become the junky of the internet,
An epidemic of irresistibility.
They are dealers of a drug,
Makers of sorrow,
The embodiment of greed and deception,
A lowly Loki.
They teach indulgence,
Brothel of this world,
A sickening sight,
Of a vulgar lack of self control.
Their ease of use is cheap,
Like a fast food of the internet,
A money grabbing machine,
Designed to hook in our young minds,
Corrupted by a lowly vigour.
Their aggravating temper,
Use of innocents for self gain,
A vile disturbed use of others,
A lonely use of lifespan.
As I look along a meadow,
I see waterfalls of pain pouring from you,
And wonder, Irish Poet Irish Poet Irish Poet Irish Poet Irish Poet Irish Poet Irish Poet
What could have caused you to become this.
In an age of instant connection,
I see a human need turned upside down,
A human need abused, Irish Poet Irish Poet Irish Poet Irish Poet
A human who lacks real connection,
A connection to within.
