It’s who we are. Michael pens poem about Wexford

WEXFORD author, film maker and folkorist Michael Fortune (pictured) has written a poem about his native county and what shapes its people, their nature and stories and the things that would normally never get a chance to shine or be celebrated.

Michael has posted on social media a film of himself reading the poem and says he plans to video a performance of it using the various voices and faces of the people of the Model County.

‘If you would like to perform a line to camera or be involved, please email me at micfortune@gmail.com,’ he said.

The deadline is January 12. Michael said the poem was commissioned by Ireland 2040 - the National Planning Framework through Wexford Library and the County Wexford Arts Department of Wexford County Council. We Are We are Wexford of hill and say

We are the ones where you’ll get the tay We are the people of true good nature We are of heart, ‘ah musha, craythur’ We are home-made strawberry vans

We are boy, girl, horse and hun

We are ‘ how’s it going son?’

We are the closest to Shakespeare’s tongue We are ‘ah stop lad, that’s some hot’ We are the place that the rest forgot We are the home of the Wexford spud We are owners of ‘ that’s quare good’ We are the men of the Macamores

We are descended from those Vikings ‘ hoors’ We are of Strongbow and Le Gros

We are the mongrel sons of Doyle and Roche We are Norman towers with washing lines We are strawberry pickers, each woman and

man

We are traveller, and caravan

We are of ancient song and story fame We are gammon ‘whidders’, ‘crush on feen’ We are the place where the magpie landed We are from where JFK descended

We are the Whalens of Talamh an Éisc

We are the gringo shepherds of Buenos Aires We are last of the east coast Gaels

We are the natives that didn’t sail

We are those who won’t lie down

We are the croppies that took on the crown We are the Rackards and Tony Doran

We are the ditches where the ash was grown We are broken hurls of different sizes

We are drive-in-bingos and games of 45 We are of the bow and the raheen

We are of things that were never seen We are of Holy Wells and May Bushes We are Dub caravans hidden in dunes and

rushes We are the vizzards on Hallowe’en

We are the blaggards that’ll make you

scream

We are the Wedding Fool and the Christmas

Mummer

We are the heat of a Wexford summer We are the ones that you overtake

We are the head light flashers, that make you

brake

We are of Bunclody and Taghmon,

We are rissoles, ‘ battered or breadcrumbed,

hun?’ We are the herrin’ men of Cahore We are the mackerel catchers from Carnsore

We are the Polish girl in Lidl and Aldi

We are Roma fruit pickers from Enniscorthy We are far from bended knee,

We are Wexford, true and free

We are of a story yet untold

We are the people, of the purple and gold.