La réunion de la fin et le début/The meeting of the end and the beginning


C’est la fin
mais c’est aussi un nouveau départ
il fait froid dehors
mais le soleil brille encore
nous avons perdu les choses
mais nous continuons
nous apprenons
et avec le temps
nous allons gagner, 
c’est la fin
mais aussi
il y a encore
de belles choses à faire…

It is the end
but it is also a new start
it is cold outside
but the sun still shines
we have lost things
but we keep going
we learn
and with time 
we will gain,
it is the end
but also
there are still
more beautiful things to do…

Happy New Year Everyone

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

31st December 2015, Paris, France



Papa was a stranger, stranded, in an otherwise happy home; a simple man,
a grumpy man, a man behind the papers; the sporting Sun on Sunday
and the Herald on a Monday before the news, nightly; 6pm and 9,
a modest man of meandering manners with inside-out sweaters
on Saturdays while he washed the car clean, the van clean,
the bike clean; spotless, blameless, blemish-less,
as if remembering someone, sensing someone
behind him, inside him, tormenting him
as if hearing someone commenting,
criticising, pointing and punishing.
Papa was a struggler, a stranger strangled
by harmless affection, by tendencies of trust,
fleeing and failing the obligation to feared family
and fleeting friends as if running from all connections,
as if unsure of what to say, how to hear, who to be and how to stay.
Papa was a shadow of someone, a stranger to himself as much as me,
the warden in the window, the watcher from the window, behind the blinds,
taking notes behind the lines, lines I could not see, lines I could not cross.
Papa was stranger, stranded, a wearisome worrier watching the world
through the window and on tv or was he watching the world
just to understand just how he could be understood…


All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly


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You opened me
You held my heart
in your own bare hands
I bared all for you
I lay naked for you
I shed my layers
I have become undone
loosened, lessened,
I have been unravelled
like ribbon
red knotted ribbon,
like red rotting blood
on the stone cold floor
of a battered heart
barely beating
revealing the emptiness
of our essence.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly




This is how we move
now, in the aftermath 
in the silence
in their absence

This is how we monitor
here and now, in the passing
under surveillance
under scrutiny

This is what happens
when the scandals burn out
when the candles burn out
this is how it goes

This is how we move, now
monitoring the metros
soldiers on streets
searches in stores

This is how we move
now, in the aftermath
and still the shadows build
and still the voices are missing
when before they were just
laughing and eating,
when once they were just
drinking and singing.

This is how we move
now, in the aftermath.


All words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly


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We saw you that day, a world away from today, in a gentler time,
when your towers of trade still stood, we saw you in your brown stones
and running shoes, always running, always pacing, always off somewhere;
somewhere newer, someplace shinier, somewhere brighter, someplace bigger
and we felt so small, so new to it all, looking on;ignorant, innocent, breathless,
you with your yelling arms hailing yellow cabs, you with your giant cars
tearing along your streets, always up the avenues and over the hundreds;
would I ever remember, could I ever forget, would we ever be able to sleep
in our tower above the park, above your streets that towered beneath us,
over us, your buildings that glistened in the daylight, sparkled in the starlight,
sparkled all night, soaring higher and higher, neck ache; always looking up
to see where they ended and the heavens began, streets like soldiers marching
downtown to funky town, Chinatown, Italian town, Liberty’s crown.
We saw you like that, that day, your brown stones and yellow cabs,
the Vanguard and the Village, where he sang and I sobbed, sobbed as he sang
for me, sang for a father. We saw you, uptown for lunches from Zabar’s,
picnics in parks before midtown for belters that blinded us on Broadway.
We saw you and your hidden treasures and your childhood pleasures;
the library, at the back, behind the glass; Winnie the Pooh and Tigger too.
We saw you, suddenly, that day, with one turn, as we fell upon your bridge,
your bridge to Brooklyn, sketched by Roebling and favoured by Whitman,
and there, above the Hudson, a turn away from the hustle and bustle,
in the years before fear reigned, before terror struck and we broke up,
everything opened up and a stillness reigned triumphantly in the air,
until, just a moment later, a siren shot through the city to remind us
that while we’d found a quiet edge, it was just an edge of a great big
shiny metropolis. We saw you that day, together, as one, one summer
when everything seemed eternal. We saw you like that, that day
and never dared to think what might happen if it all fell down.

All words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly


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Starting at top left with a Jeu de Paume exhibition advertised at Cite Metro station on Ile de la Cite, La Tour Eiffel seen from Le Mur pour la Paix (The Wall of Peace), a bench in Jardin du Luxembourg, the back roof of the Saint Sulpice church in the 6th arrondissement, Notre Dame seen from the terrace of Institut du Monde Arabe on Quai Saint Bernard.

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Autumn revealing its colour on the hills of Parc de Belleville in the 20th, looking at reflections on a glass wall of the George Hermant swimming pool in the 19th, plant pots on Rue Mabillon in the 6th, La Tour Eiffel and the champ du Mars, graffiti on columns in the Maison du l’Air in Belleville, mosaic panelling inside the Institut du Monde Arab.

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A man sitting in the Jardin des Tuileries, a winding side street in the 6th, metro line at Pasteur in the 15th, a bridge in the Parc Bercy in the 12th, trees along the road side in Neuilly Sur Seine, a house in Parc Bercy.

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 A black and white shot of the Nassim de Camondo Museum in the 8th, the bridge again (I like it), a tree yellowing at Parc Montsouris in the 14th by Cite Universitaire, polar ice melting at the Pantheon in the 5th for the Climate Change conference, a chandelier in a glass ball on a lake in the Jardin des Tuileries and a deserted railway line in the 14th.

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Boat houses opposite Ile de la Grande Jatte in Neuilly Sur Seine, the Louis Vuitton Foundation museum in the Bois de Boulogne, the entrance to Parc Monceau in the 8th and finally a leafy lane in Parc Bercy.

The featured photograph is a hot air balloon (Ballon GENERALI de Paris) hovering over Parc Andre Citreon in the 15th arrondissement.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly



he saw colour
in a park, a simple park
on a Sunday, in the summer.
he painted colour 
in that park; clear, considered
untainted, untampered
specs of colour,
rays of light
in a park
on a Sunday, in the summer 
in a season of details, in a salon of specifics
under demands to consolidate, co-operate. 
he saw colour,
a canvas of light and colour,
a carnival of colour.
he saw colour 
in a park, on people
simple people, working people
fishing people, fidgeting people
not polished people, not posh people.
They buried him
in a park,
another park,
a quieter park
but still with light and colour.
They buried him
and then they buried his son
and then another,
life and death,
father and sons,
children and art,
children or art but only art survived.
He saw colour
on a Sunday, in a park, on an island, in Paris, 
to the left of its center
and there he made a difference.  


All words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken on Ile de la Grande Jatte, Paris, France. 



Play me
he pleaded
and she conceded,
trickle a tune
along my spine
make thee mine.
I’ll make you whine
she promised him
and so she played him
then she laid him
then she splayed him.
She teased the sheets
she scorched the score
and she nibbled on notes
he never even knew existed
and then she left him, lying there
broken, battered and gasping for air
pleading with her
to stop and save him
as she walked away
singing a solo.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

A Thousand Sweet Dreams

It’s coming to the end of the year so I’m doing some rebloging or reruns of some poems that I reworked here and there and tweaked in other places because as we know reruns, just like old F.R.I.E.N.D.S, are sometimes even better second time round…

Damien B. Donnelly

I will love you for a thousand years and a thousand years more
if only you’d ask and I would, you know, lock that love away
so it can’t be touched, tarnished or tampered with. I will hide it
so deep within my heart that every beat will be stronger for it.
I will love you for a thousand years though a thousand others
may come and go, to distract me, delight me, even deceive me
but you will remain, as always, the single force that lies within,
that assures me in the darkness you have been a guiding light,
that reminds me in happiness you made me smile. I will love you
for a thousand years as if we’d spent a thousand nights together,
as if I’d been kissed by your lips a million times, as if I’d dreamt
in your arms a hundred dreams, as if we’d always…

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Its Sunday Reblog again. I’ve been busy moving to Paris from Amsterdam (via London, Paris before and originally Dublin) and settling in for the past few months but now its the Christmas season and the time for giving and I wanted to share one of Christina’s poems today as she always captures me with her honesty and bare naked truth. This is a beautiful piece and I hope you enjoy it…

Christina Strigas

I do not know

what you truly think

of me

or of all my dead lovers.

Once they kissed my skin

wrapped me up in denim

cheap corner motels

backseat heaven

kissed them in closets

on gurnies, trust me

you would not care

how I wore my black phase

through my blue one,

how my breasts and legs

led me through lines

free cocktails, drugs,

rides, vip sections,

limos, rock stars.

He said “you are art”

and never read my verse,

but he lived in some kind

of utopia

and locked me out.

I wandered up and down Brooklyn

Bridge, examining initials.

In and out of phone booths

with quarters in my pocket

and collect calls on my mind.

“You are my art” he explained

but I never wanted my dark hair

spread on his sofa

so he could paint me

in various naked poses,

“no,” I said,

“I like…

View original post 40 more words