Tin Town

by Annette Condon

In memory of the prisoners, who went on hunger strike at the Curragh Internment Camp during the Civil War. The camp was known as Tin Town (Baile an Stáin) by the internees.


Hunger is a sharp thorn,

piercing my belly,

protruding out my back.

I am one of the many.

I smell soda bread

cooling on the table,

The bacon boiling in the pot

over the fire.

My mother drawing the tea.

I open my eyes.

Is there any more hot salt and water


The rain jigs and hops, 

Tin Town, Tin Town. 

The wind sings and hums,

tickling and teasing,

Tin Town, Tin Town. 

I am playing hide-and-seek

with my brothers in the old cowhouse.

I am rattling and rusting, 

creaking on the Curragh plains, 

in the smooth, green grass, 

where the horses run free. 




Reproduced with kind permission of the author. This poem was composed in Poetry as Commemoration workshops held at Tipperary Studies in March 2023. The workshops were led by writer David McLoghlin.