Sunday/Pugh

In "Chocolate from the Famine Museum," the poet Sheenagh Pugh writes about a guide's earnest efforts to make the history of The Great Hunger alive and relevant to comfortable and privileged children. It caught my eye because my family is from Roscommon.




Chocolate from the Famine Museum

Strokestown, Co Roscommon

Reading numbers on a wall,
so many thousand evicted,
exiled, starved,


soon palls. The boys are looking
for buttons to press,
and Sir’s at a loss


how to bring it alive. He tries
to give them the reek
of peat smoke and lamp oil


in a cramped turf cabin,
wishing there was a replica
they could crowd into.


At every turn, language
fails him. Starving
means wanting dinner,


not boiling boot-leather
till you can chew it,
hoping it stays down.


They sailed to America,
he laments, to lads
who’ve flown there


on holiday, who make nothing
of oceans. They fidget
through the video,


dying for their reward:
the gift shop.
Their faces light up,


for the first time, at sheep
in green hats, penny whistles,
toy blackthorn sticks,


and the chocolate. Praline,
ganache, mint, mocha, truffle,
they’re spoiled for choice,


their day flavoured
for ever with the velvet
dark in their mouths.


SHEENAGH PUGH (2003)