representations of her in sculpture, paintings and stained glass and commemorations to her in the liturgy and in prayers. Various forms of her name, especially Brighid, Bríd, Brigid, Bridget have been popular for girls and an order of nuns, the Brigidines, was founded in her honour. In folklore she is venerated as the ‘Mary of the Gael’and even as foster-mother of Jesus. Her cult was widely established by Irish missionaries and emigrants on the continent of Europe from the seventh to the ninth century, and similarly, in recent centuries, in America, Africa and Australia. Since the mid-twentieth century the cult of St Brigid has declined, except with regard to the popular St Brigid’s Cross. Parents do not name their daughters after her as frequently as heretofore and the folk-tradition surrounding her is dying out. Somewhat ironically, St Brigid has been adopted as an icon by feminists who admire her achievements in a patriarchal society. Thus they echo Maud Gonne and Inghínidhe na hÉireann (Daughters of Ireland), who promoted her as a model for women at the beginning of the twentieth century. While the monograph is a valuable contribution to the historiography on St Brigid, it does not provide a satisfactory answer to those who doubt that she was a real person. Fr J Anthony Gaughan is a retired parish priest in the Archdiocese of Dublin and the author of numerous historical writings. Sound Effects in a Studio, Aidan Mathews (Cork: Southword Editions, 2017). In his biography Chronicles, Volume One, Bob Dylan recounts meeting a guy who used to provide sound effects for radio shows. ‘I asked him . . . how he got the sound of the electric chair and he said it was bacon sizzling. What about broken bones? The guy took out a LifeSaver [mint] and crushed it between his teeth’. Dylan reflects, ‘I was raised on that stuff, used to quiver with excitement listening to these shows.’ In the poem, ‘Sound Effects in a Studio’,Aidan Mathews reveals how these associated sounds startle the imagination into accepting that what is being signified is real. In one particular scene of transformation, his eighteenth century heroine, ‘in a tank top and warm leggings under a denim skirt’, could Studies • volume 107 • number 426 250 Summer 2018: Book Reviews be a Greek station porter who is called Kurios Metaphor. ‘So let one thing stand for another’, the poet invites, our ordinary human lives laying claim on some deeper reality: ‘You breathing through a blocked nose now/ A breeze on the face of the deep, / My silence the only word for it’. ‘Francis of Assisi’, with its great opening line –‘Francis of Assisi is my bi-polar saint’ – takes an unconventional slant. Here the saint is interrogated as to gender clarification for ‘my manic depression’, this ‘neutered thing’ requiring for respite ‘the little vanillas of tranquillity’. ‘Is it Sister Stalker or Brother Trauma?’ ‘The wolf came to you with his hang-dog tail’, he appeals, ‘why not the werewolf?’ The poem reads as a howl against the frightening land of altered reality as the poet-child remembers being sent back to bed: ‘Stop the nonsense…though the stairs were melting in the sweat of my four feet on walkabout’. Mathews is a poet of the incarnational, our fleshy existence mapped for its floodplains and wetlands. For him there is no line of separation between body-blood and soul-divinity. Indeed, much of his writing carries the subtext that there is a surcharge of meaning in the nature of existence, for ‘the social lepers…damaged and ageing… are as human as God’(‘Healing the Lepers’). This short collection begins with the poem, ‘After Omagh’ – ‘It was where you turn at the meat-processing plant’ – the ferocity of the explosion, when it registers, silencing the impatient horn-blowing of those stuck in a trafficsnarl . His audacious pun, ‘The rest is sirens…’, captures all that cannot be said nor made amenable to speech beyond the sign language at pains to break the news on the News for the Deaf. A wry humour is never far away. Mathews’penchant for self-deprecation is one expression of it: ‘I walked our...
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