By Annie Rachele Lanzillotto
Annie attended the recent Spirit of Mother Jones Festival and Summer School in Shandon. Here is a poem which she wrote during her stay in Shandon.
“Shandon Sweets”
Black licorice in bed 1:30am
thick like a twisted cigar
twirl of black anise
amuses my tongue
pacifies me back to sleep
ancient medicine Ma always said
"It's good for the stomach,"
black licorice, part of her charms
pockabook arsenals
So that's what I chose today
at the homemade candy store
the one thing my mother said was good for me
On the hill of Shandon
where I live just up the hill from the candy maker
early morning he's in there
boiling up sweets in copper cauldrons
rolled, stamped, and cut
with bronze impression dies
swirling black anise
for my insides
I am under Shandon bells tonight
tonight under Shandon bells.
Every hour the chime gongs
echoes inside the chamber of me
Somehow I know the hour
without counting the bells.
I sense an odd number or even,
eleven or twelve
Shandon Bells are a comfort
a constancy,
something I can count on.
Soulful tones
Mother Jones was born right here,
and Annie Moore
Born under Shandon bells.
Young girls of Cork.
Annie lived on the lane right down from the candy store.
I pass her house most every day.
Annie was the very first immigrant to pass through Ellis Island.
January 1st, 1892. The first of twelve million to sign the book.
And Mother Jones, a.k.a. Mary Harris,
was once known as "the most dangerous woman in America."
These girls came to New York
and inspired the world.
Tonight I sleep on top of their hill where they ran as children,
the hill of Shandon, under the bells.
There they ring again and I feel a pop in my heart
under the bells, under the stones,
under the limestone and rose sandstone walls
under the gold salmon that tops iron weathervane
atop the cathedral.
Under the four faces of the giant clock
each which tells a different time
earning it the nickname, "The Four Faced Liar."
That's a telling sobriquet
for any church clock tower
The top of Shandon is where all the butter roads led,
butter came from all over Ireland
by cart and horse, or donkey, up to the top of Shandon
to be measured and weighed and packaged,
Butter exchange of the world,
this is my neighborhood,
The top of the old world of butter.
Somehow, it's all connected,
Black licorice, Mother Jones, Annie Moore,
my activism in New York City,
memorializing the immigrant workers in the Triangle Fire,
with all my comrades:
artists and activists,
grandchildren of immigrants, refugees,
and all the butter roads
ending up the hill to Shandon. . .
Somehow things make sense tonight
and I am at a strange peace.
Annie Rachele Lanzillotto
Artistic Director, StreetCry
annielanzillotto.com
streetcryinc.org
