Right here in Oz, at the University of Western Australia, Professor Luba Kalaydjieva and her team discovered the origin of the Rom by studying the DNA of up to 10 million European Gypsies.

The study has been going on for 10 years, and is the best evidence yet of the true origin of the Gypsies.
You can read the full report here.

We saw no borders,
or in truth, we ignored them,
through mountain passes and lonely roads;
the stars our roof, the grass our beds.

Northwards we spread,
Growing the tribes,
picking up strays
Who followed us and needed to belong.

They chose to be like us,
to become one with the people of the road.

We are Rom, zigani, travellers,
our names are as many as our pathways.

We are the Travelling People.

The Crossroads Dance always took place on a Sunday, after Church – the reasoning being that everyone will meet at the crossroads anyway, on their way home.

The dusty road was no good for dancing, so a couple of burly farm workers would haul a barn door (or in some places, a floor would be made and kept for the purpose) to the crossroads and lay it down for a dance floor.

Word would go out, and the gypsies would be there, hawking their wares, as well as fiddle players, dancers and bodhran and pipe players from all around the area.

Young gosheens would roost in the trees around the crossroads, where they could watch the fun. Families would bring picnics and lay out their tablecloths in the nearby fields or on the grass verge. If there were travelling showmen in the area you might even see a set of swinging boats or a merry-go-round.

The dance would start as soon as the first musician got there, because the fiddler, piper or bodhran player couldn’t wait to get the rhythm going.

In Ireland, talent is not the main requirement if you want to sing, dance or play. As Dominic Behan (the folk singing brother of writer Brendan Behan) said, “In Ireland, everyone sings, whether they can or not.” Enthusiasm and knowing the words to a song count for a lot more.

If we are lucky, a famed fiddler or pipe player might be there, sawing or piping up a storm of jigs, reels and mournful ballads.

The gosheens up in the trees and the old ladies gathered round the dance floor learn everything worth knowing as they watch the goings on among the crowd. A shy exchange between a red faced young farmer and the demure daughter of the local farrier sets tongues wagging. Their hands link briefly as they stand watching the dancers step out to the fiddler, feet flashing so quickly that you can hardly follow them.

Dougal and Diarmid, the rascally twins from McMinn’s farm, are planning another joke on their long suffering older sister, who has worn her best finery to attract the attention of young Fergus Finnegan. It involves creeping up behind her with handfuls of mud, but luckily their father spots them first and a roar rents the air, sending the twins scuttling back to their Ma for protection.

Romance, bargains and gossip abound, for this was truly a social event and a chance for everyone to get together and exchange news.

(Alas, crossroads dances were banned by the Irish church in 1935, and these days it would simply be too dangerous, with all the traffic about, but here at the Gypsy camp we like to keep old traditions alive.)

Gail

Sometimes I wish
That I had never had children,
And I think, if I ever come back,
I won’t have any.
I’ll spare myself that, at least,
The pain of seeing them
Hurt by life as it hurt me.

I’ll go along with the oft spoken wisdom,
“If you can’t look after your children,
You shouldn’t have them.”
Because we can’t look after them,
No, we can’t. Simple as that.

And maybe someday everyone
Will think the same,
And no one will have children
Because to bring a child into this world
Is nothing less than child abuse
And we are too responsible for that.

And we’ll watch each other grow old,
We’ll watch each other die,
And there will be no one to remember,
Or care.

Then we may wish
That some irresponsible ninny
Of a woman somewhere
Will get herself pregnant
So we can hear
The laughter of a child again.

This is my first attempt at rhymed verse since my grade school years (and that’s very long ago).

The tempo isn’t just quite right
But I do so love the sentiment.

Sorry! I’ve been trying so many rhymes, I couldn’t resist that couplet when it popped into my mind. And here’s the poem.

A Gypsy Memory

I wander far from family tents
while camping in thick wilderness.
to far explore from all the rest.

Creeping so silent through thick underbrush
breathing so quiet, barely a hush;
the forest arms wrap me with restoring touch.

Then I open my eyes so very wide
and a dark, young girl I really do spy
in colours bright on a sweet Gypsy child.

Quite shy, she hides in a giant oak tree
and peeks around slowly so she can see.
Our eyes do meet, and smile do we.

We smile, oh, a most friendly smile
She beckons; we walk ‘most a mile
And seek her camp of Gypsies wild.

Down to a clearing in the vale
Bright caravans line the deep, green dale
Protected from both wind and gale.

Oh, fabulous tents and ornate spires
Amid the glowing, embered fires
Hear tambourines ring high and higher

In fascination, I can’t hold still
As gypsies sing with robins’ trill
And dance so free on misty rill.

The families from the Middle East
make rice and curry, a fine feast,
their welcome’s true for man or beast.

I find a hammock in the trees
and watch a honking pass of geese
My happiness shall never cease.

But then a yell from mountain high
My father calls and so I cry
“Yes, father, here I am” and sigh.

My Gypsy friend hides with her clan
All dancing and all singing banned
Tents fill with woman and with man.

And slowly I go up the path
to meet my Dad and we rush fast
for he feared we’d meet a Gypsy lass.

This story lies within my heart.
Forced so by race, we had to part
But Gypsies, they’d read my Tarot card.

They’d searched my fortune; it was read
A laugh-filled life and long, they’d said.
Soul mate and I, we’d live well wed.

The Tarot card I’d saved was Lovers.
The life I knew, the mem’ries, hover
surround my bed and quilted cover.

I dream of Gypsies.

Once Grainne lived on the hillside,
A girl with wild dark hair.
And they said she healed those sick with care,
With the herbs she found
In the fertile ground;
She knew all that flourished there.

Once Grainne walked on the hillside,
With the wind in her long dark hair.
And they say she met with the Huntsman there,
Who came in the night
Like a swan in flight,
And saw that she was fair.

They heard her cry out on the hillside.
No human child did she bear.
And he grew like a stag with wild dark hair,
An elfin boy, the Huntsman’s son
Who lived as one
With the hawk and the leaping hare.

Once Grainne lived on the hillside,
Now there is no one there.
And they say one night when the stars were bare,
The Huntsman came like a swooping swan,
And carried off his Elfin son,
And the girl with the wild dark hair.

Gail Kavanagh

Fire Draw

You cannot give our fire but a glance,
or walk right by with never a chance
to be one with it and know its heart,
of which death and birth both take part

Huddle close for warmth or skying,
embers pulse with endless dreaming –
gone those discarded writs of sorrow,
smoky prayer for joy tomorrow.

Far the mountain of bright yearning,
forgotten more the sea left churning.
Claim the now by fire’s entrancing –
be one with all who fuel its burning.

Join the campfire of Gypsy haven,
sense the presence of nighttime Raven;
share food and drink and storied wonder,
growing, learning from one another.

faucon