Story time in Roscrea Library takes place EVERY THURSDAY during July and August
Our next story time session takes place this Thursday 19th July
- For 3-6 year olds
- Thursday 19 July
- 10.30 AM to 11 AM
We look forward to seeing you in the Library for a bit of fun!!
( Children must be accompanied by a parent or guardian)
For more details : 0505 22032
Tipperary artist Geraldine Jackman currently has an exhibition of artworks on show at Cashel Library,running until the 27th of July 2012. Geraldine is a graduate of the Limerick School of Art and Design.
Geraldine’s work is inspired by past histories of people and places, and often incorporates reclaimed materials and found or discarded objects. She uses a variety of different materials in her work such as oils, resin, ink and wax. Geraldine’s work shows how these materials can be manipulated in different ways to produce various different effects. She says that it’s through this experimentation that she finds new ways and new ideas for her practice.
Her recent solo exhibitions have included the South Tipperary Arts Centre, Clonmel, in January 2011, and Birr Theatre and Arts Centre in September 2011, and Tipperary Excel in January 2012 Her work was selected to participate in the exhibition Irish Wave 2012 in Beijing China in March 2012. She also had a solo exhibition in The Courthouse Arts Centre, Tinahely, Co. Wicklow in May. 2012 She is presently also participating in a group exhibition ‘Fusion’ in Friarsgate Theatre & Arts Centre Kilmallock. Co Limerick with four other Limerick School of Arts graduates. She lives in Golden, Co. Tipperary and has work in private collections in Ireland, France Australia and the U.K.
We have some mixed opinions on some of our recent bookclub reads.
Taking a general view we would rate them as follows;
Rules of Civility by Amor Towles *****
Lovesong by Alex Miller ***
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot ****
Even The Dogs by Jon McGregor *
The Yacubian Building by Alaa Al Aswany ***
The Rose of Sebastopol by Katharine McMahon ****
The Small House at Allington by Anthony Trollope ****
Evening is the Whole Day by Preeta Samarasan *
One Morning Like a Bird by Andrew Miller **
The Women by T. Coraghessan Boyle ***
Under The Net by Iris Murdoch and Kiernan Ryan ***
Still Alice by Lisa Genova****
The House at Riverton by Kate Morton****
The Lost Daughter by Diane Chamberlain ****
A Small Part of History by Peggy Elliott ***
Tiger Hills by Sarita Mandanna *****
This is All (The Dance Sequence) by Aidan Chambers ****
Unspoken by Gerard Stembridge *****
Noah’s Compass by Anne Tyler ***
Notes from an Exhibition by Patrick Gale ****
The Villa Triste by Lucretia Grindle *****
The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga ***
After River by Donna Milne r***
The Red Tent by Anita Diamant ****
The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery ****
Burnt Shadows by Kamila Shamsie **
One Day by David Nicholls ****
The Glass Painter’s Daughter by Rachel Hore ****
A Fair Maiden: A dark novel of suspense by Joyce Carol Oates **
Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford ***
Below are a few books suggested by bookclub members that you might like to try over the Summer
A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute
The Better Half by Sarah Harte
The Tiger’s Wife: A Novel by Tea Obreht
Cutting For Stone by Abraham Verghese
Derby Day by D J Taylor
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
Call The Midwife: A True Story Of The East End In The 1950s by Jennifer Worth
In the Midst of Life by Jennifer Worth
Before I Go To Sleep by S J Watson
Retrospections by Dorothea Herbert
Case Histories by Kate Atkinson
The Story of Lucy Gault by William Trevor
Little Gypsy: A Life of Freedom, a Time of Secrets by Roxy Freeman
Inheritance: Inheritance Cycle, Book 4 by Christopher Paolini
Sacred Hearts by Sarah Dunant
We have recently started to look at poetry. Each meeting one member picks a poem to read to the group.
Below are some of the poems we have listened to-
Warning by Jenny Joseph
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Desiderata by Max Ehrmann
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and ignorant; they too have their story .Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter ,for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself .Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble ;it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism .Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune .But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
Missing God by Dennis O’Driscoll
His grace is no longer called for
before meals: farmed fish multiply
without His intercession.
Bread production rises through
disease-resistant grains devised
scientifically to mitigate His faults.
Yet, though we rebelled against Him
like adolescents, uplifted to see
an oppressive father banished -
a bearded hermit - to the desert,
we confess to missing Him at times.
Miss Him during the civil wedding
when, at the blossomy altar
of the registrar’s desk, we wait in vain
to be fed a line containing words
like ‘everlasting’ and ‘divine’.
Miss Him when the TV scientist
explains the cosmos through equations,
leaving our planet to revolve on its axis
aimlessly, a wheel skidding in snow.
Miss Him when the radio catches a snatch
of plainchant from some echoey priory;
when the gospel choir raises its collective voice
to ask Shall We Gather at the River?
or the forces of the oratorio converge
on I Know That My Redeemer Liveth
and our contracted hearts lose a beat.
Miss Him when a choked voice at
the crematorium recites the poem
about fearing no more the heat of the sun.
Miss Him when we stand in judgement
on a lank Crucifixion in an art museum,
its stripe-like ribs testifying to rank.
Miss Him when the gamma-rays
recorded on the satellite graph
seem arranged into a celestial score,
the music of the spheres,
the Ave Verum Corpus of the observatory lab.
Miss Him when we stumble on the breast lump
for the first time and an involuntary prayer
escapes our lips; when a shadow crosses
our bodies on an x-ray screen; when we receive
a transfusion of foaming blood
sacrificed anonymously to save life.
Miss Him when we exclaim His name
spontaneously in awe or anger
as a woman in a birth ward
calls to her long-dead mother.
Miss Him when the linen-covered
dining table holds warm bread rolls,
shiny glasses of red wine.
Miss Him when a dove swoops
from the orange grove in a tourist village
just as the monastery bell begins to take its toll.
Miss Him when our journey leads us
under leaves of Gothic tracery, an arch
of overlapping branches that meet
like hands in Michelangelo’s Creation.
Miss Him when, trudging past a church,
we catch a residual blast of incense,
a perfume on par with the fresh-baked loaf
which Milosz compared to happiness.
Miss Him when our newly-fitted kitchen
comes in Shaker-style and we order
a matching set of Mother Ann Lee chairs.
Miss Him when we listen to the prophecy
of astronomers that the visible galaxies
will recede as the universe expands.
Miss Him when the sunset makes
its presence felt in the stained glass
window of the fake antique lounge bar.
Miss Him the way an uncoupled glider
riding the evening thermals misses its tug.
Miss Him, as the lovers shrugging
shoulders outside the cheap hotel
ponder what their next move should be.
Even feel nostalgic, odd days,
for His Second Coming,
like standing in the brick
dome of a dovecote
after the birds have flown.
Where Do All The Teachers Go by Peter Dixon
Where do all the teachers go
When it’s four o’clock?
Do they live in houses
And do they wash their socks?
Do they wear pyjamas
And do they watch TV?
And do they pick their noses
The same as you and me?
Do they live with other people?
Have they mums and dads?
And were they ever children?
And were they ever bad?
Did they ever, never spell right?
Did they ever make mistakes?
Were they punished in the corner
If they pinched the chocolate flakes?
Did they ever lose their hymn books?
Did they ever leave their greens?
Did they scribble on the desk tops?
Did they wear old dirty jeans?
I’ll follow one back home today
I’ll find out what they do
Then I’ll put it in a poem
That they can read to you.
He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven by William Butler Yeats
HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.