Month: July 2017

THE RETURN TO THE WATER

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At 20 I was reckless,
I waded into waters
with careless concern
for direction.
At 40 I had grown
to understand grounding;
it was not the water
that rushed through me
but the bed my body
rested on. I stand again
over the waters,
rushing always onwards,
but have found my place
in a bed that reassures me
I am no longer a victim
to the whisper of regret.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Inspired by a Twitter poetry prompt form #WrittenRiver

THIS CAN BE PARADISE

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All tides,
like time,
trickle away,
all thoughts
are tempered towards forgotten,
all hold;
to the harbour of has been.
All waters
wash through rivers
to find the ocean.

We are water
washing through paths,
plotting our way
towards that dream
of paradise.

Today we are hope floating,
tomorrow; no more
than faded memories.

Build paradise
along the path
and not just in the dream.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Based on a Twitter poetry prompt from #ShapePoetry

DAWN CHORUS

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I wonder did
Brontosaurus
give as much thought
to the dawn chorus
as we do

  
or was he happy
merely surviving,
not constantly deriving
illusions to fulfill
our own delusions of grandeur.

All words and photograph by Damien B. Donnelly

Based on a Twitter poetry prompt from #ShapePoetry

OUR TALES IN TIME

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Time turns;
living, loving,
leaving, moving,
unpacking belongings
from battered boxes
neath a new roof
my thoughts will soon
echo through,
the faithful and familiar
find prized places
in new positions.
All that has changed
is the clock I hang
on a new hook
in this new home.

For time, like life,
never stays put;
with every tick
it tells the tale
of where we’ve been
and what’s yet to unfold.

All words by Damien B. Donnelly

Based on a Twitter Poetry Prompt from #MicroPrompt

UNFINISHED

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I am a being blown
from baby to boundaries
to bondage and breathless
on contrary winds
that offer no warning
and cast no conscience
towards direction, I am
a wave caught on a current
in a reversed ocean,
swimming up
to dive deeper,
going out
to come undone,
exposed
in my raw
unreadiness,
a photo
that hasn’t been shopped,
an unfinished portrait
of a person
I haven’t quite become.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Based in a Twitter Poetry Prompt for #DimpleVerse

I CAME TO THE CITY, MY MUSE, MISS MITCHELL

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My series of poems ‘I Came to the City” has been inspired by the music and artistry of Joni Mitchell, whose music I first head in a little back side, one floor up apartment in the Marais in Paris in 1998 played for me by my flatmate at the time Tambourine Therese and this music and visual art has never left me, hence this series of introspective, external, political, jazzy, rambling, rolling poems.

The ‘I came to the City’ title comes from the name of the A side of Joni’s first album ‘Songs to a Seagull’, the B side is aptly named ‘Out of the City and Down to the Seaside.’

Each poem followed the albums in chronological order from folk, to confession, to jazz, to restlessness, to the 80’s political unrest, to introspection, age, reflection and affirmation. Joni designed most of her album art and so I have taken inspiration from each cover to go with each poem in the series. Joni said once in an interview that after each period of writing comes a period of painting, although she was never sure which came first, the music or the art. Either way, this was my tribute to an incredible artist who has faced the spotlight and, in spite of its intensity and scrutiny, has remained one of the greatest and truest artists to put pen to paper, a voice to words and colour to canvas.

Below are the albums and my interpretations…

Thank you Joni Mitchell.

 

Songs to a Seagull, 1968

My poem, A Song for the Sleeping Bee: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/17/i-came-to-the-city-part-1-a-song-for-the-sleeping-bee/

Soundcloud audio: 

 

Clouds, 1969

My poem Potters on the Road: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/18/i-came-to-the-city-part-2-potters-on-the-road/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Ladies of the Canyon, 1970

My poem Gone, The Garden; https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/20/i-came-to-the-city-part-3-gone-the-garden/

Soundcloud audio: 

Blue, 1971

My poem Boy So Blue: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/22/i-came-to-the-city-part-4-boy-so-blue/

Soundcloud audio:

 

For The Roses, 1972

My poem Could Have Been More: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/23/i-came-to-the-city-part-5-could-have-been-more/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Court and Spark, 1974

My poem Longing; The Taste of Things to Come; https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/05/30/longing-the-taste-of-things-to-come/

Soundcloud audio:

 

The Hissing of Summer Lawns, 1975

My poem The Hissing in the Summer: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/25/i-came-to-the-city-part-7-the-hissing-in-the-summer/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Hejira, 1976

My poem Taxi Driver: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/26/i-came-to-the-city-part-8-taxi-driver/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter, 1977

My poem A Muse on a Rough Rouse: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/27/i-came-to-the-city-part-9-a-muse-on-a-rough-rouse/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Mingus, 1979

My poem The Sum of Who We Are; https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/28/i-came-to-the-city-part-10-the-sum-of-who-we-are/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Wild Things Run Fast, 1982

My poem Correcting Corinthians: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/29/i-came-to-the-city-part-11-correcting-corinthians/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Dog Eat Dog, 1985

My poem Appetites: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/30/i-came-to-the-city-part-12-appetites/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Chalk In A Rainstorm, 1988

My poem Capture Beauty: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/01/i-came-to-the-city-part-13-capture-beauty/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Night Ride Home, 1991

My poem Two Rooms in the Land of the Frogs: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/02/i-came-to-the-city-part-14-two-rooms-in-the-land-of-the-frogs/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Turbulent Indigo, 1994

My poem Turbulent Sacrifice: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/03/i-came-to-the-city-part-15-turbulent-sacrifice/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Taming The Tiger, 1998

My poem Lilting Lullaby: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/04/i-came-to-the-city-part-16-lilting-lullaby/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Both Sides Now, 2000

My poem The Other Side:  https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/05/i-came-to-the-city-part-17-the-other-side/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Travelogue, 2003

My poem Travelogue: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/06/i-came-to-the-city-part-18-travelogue/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Shine, 2007

My poem Confession: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/07/i-came-to-the-city-part-19-confession/

Soundcloud audio:

 

All Words by Damien B. Donnelly. All photographs and artwork by Damien B. Donnelly, inspired by the visions of Joni Mitchell

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 19; CONFESSION

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I have been courted
by counts and clowns,
too costly to count,
to considered to be questioned,
too comical to consider courtly
while in cities crowded with crossing carriages
and calm corners curated in comfort.
I have been coloured in, cared for,
cooped up, critiqued, cried out
and carried on, careless at times,
cautious at others,
I am creature creative
within this creation
in constant recreation,
a commuter
on this continuing carriageway
as cryptic as these clouds
of cotton-like complexity I cannot catch,
this carnival carousel of colours
not always complimentary
but of constant curiosity
that keeps on careering
and I am caught, concentric,
in consensual contentment
on its current that cannot be caged.
I came to the city,
this city, a city, other cities,
on a calling caught,
to cast all caution into the chaos
so as to compress the cost,
to consider the curve of common cliche
and covet the calling of the unconventional,
to cast a cry into the canyon
I have cut from my own carcass
so as to be counted as contestant.
I came in from the cold corners of complacency
where the crows were cawing callous
with the canines of carnality
to carve my confession
upon the confines of concrete
so as to comprehend the kisses I’ve captured
and the cords I’ve become a connoisseur of
within these courts that have contemplated me
and these circuses that have certified me
as compliant competitor.
I can only compliment the countless confusions
that called me careless
and I considered too crude to be counted,
but they count as the catalysts
that corrected my compass to
its calling within this circle
I am committed to seeing through
to its conclusion.

Shine on, shadowed sky,
with your stars like songs
singing along their sojourn.
I see sinister no more in shadow
and sight not always in sun.
We are seagulls and snakes
and saints and sinners
in the same situation,
searching for stimulants,
singing in unison
of our struggles and our strengths,
striving to see salvation in the spotlight,
searching out that spark to court
in sex and sense
that will send our souls soaring
into the stratosphere.
We are songs being sung
in a simultaneous serenade.
We are stars.

We are not nothing and never will be.

See how we Shine.

All words and photo collage by Damien B. Donnelly

This is the final poem in the series which has been inspired by the artistry of Joni Mitchell and each poem has followed her albums in chronological order.

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 18; TRAVELOGUE

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I

In the park
bodies are bare and bending
in sweaty forms,
see the skin still salivating
as if fresh from the frolics,
when we were fondled and found,
some born to be bound
and then others;
fickle fools thinking thrusts
were as true as trust.

But truth is told only in time;
touch turns from tenderly
tempestuous to temperamental
and all too temporary.

I had a king
in a castle in London
who showed me Soho
and Shakespeare
and Sondheim and song,
I had a home
in the confines of concrete
with textiles and textures
and people who thought
I shouldn’t want more,
I was a shadow
of winter in summer,
I was a peasant
unprepared for the palace
of people and places and graces.
I was the blue note in a home
where I didn’t belong.

I was caught
and caged in the concrete
I had pasted and painted
with colour to keep out
the cold.
I was the killer
of kindness in the castle
when I couldn’t keep track of the ties
too lonesome to hold.

II

Truth, like ties,
are tenuous,
like I told him once
and he laughed
and I knew I’d already lost him.
We were drunk then,
daily, ravenously rampant
by the river, raising the rafters
of romanticism into something
more erotic as liquor left us
more likeable,
more pliable.
More, you asked,
more of more and more
and we were whores
to the hunger, fools rocking
on a trust, that I had told him,
would turn out to be as tenuous
as it was temporary.

My old man
was a funny one,
a drinking man,
a bottle collector
who liked me like his liquor;
in cabinets next to cast offs
and collectables he could polish
at his pleasure.
My old man
was a fond one
of class and culture
who liked his treasure
in bottomless glasses
and freshly pressed sheets.
My old man
was the party clown
when the lights were leaving
and the drink deceiving
and despondent, at times, I think,
to think that he could have been more,
to think that we could have
had more.
My old man
was a bottle collector,
a drinking man
of class and culture
but there wasn’t enough room
in the bed for us all
with the more and more and more.

The sun is shining now
in this park, over sweating skins
poised for it to be permanent
while I watch the clouds gathering
just beyond the tress

where the vultures
are devouring their own virtues.

III

Alone now,
a flight of feathers
free from all shackles,
walking the single lane,
secure if it is to be
for a single day
or forever.
Alone
and casting off
the cages that once encased me,
feeling strength
that has long since slumbered,
heading along the highway
and holding all that is truly mine,
slowly retuning
to my natural state,
my own body embracing
its bounty, baring its beauty
like the womb; nurturing myself.
Loving alone now,
getting to know the curves
and the quite corners
of this midway of me
and the miles I am making,
true to the tales
of my own travelogue,
all natural states eclipse
for in returning
to this part of me,
once pushed aside,
once cast out of spotlight,
I am moved,
almost elevated,
parallel to that
which I am bound
into becoming.

I am the waters
no longer resting,
I am the stream swimming
from the city to the open ocean
and already I can feel the breeze
that those bound parks can only ponder.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 17; THE OTHER SIDE

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What is life
but a book to read
from both sides,
from either end,
from all there is to see here
below the constant clouds of consideration
and from far on high
where the clouds are carpet
and the stars are as close to perfection
as we can get,
for midway
through this meander
of noise and nonsense,
of love and what is left
in its place
when it has parted,
i am no closer
to the correct question
as I am to the unachievable answer.

What is love
but a sunlight
seen out of season,
a breath to better us
when there is no air,
a rainstorm
when all we can see
is desert dust
sweeping over the highway
where our hope is headed
while we are bound,
barely,
to faithful,
to fearless,
to ferocious,
as we falter, fail and fall
and rise again,
better for the bruises
ready for the next round,
prepared to bleed out
our lives along
this road we are rocking.

And still I can drink another case
of you, and you, and you, and you, and you…

What is life?
What is love?
What is the point in asking?

We are here…
happy, hurt, healing.

We have cut through the clouds
and reached the other side…

what more is there to fear?

All Words and Paintings by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

 

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 16; LILTING LULLABY

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I thought we were templates for tattoos to tell tales on,
I never thought to the tire skids and teeth marks time’s tiger
would temper on our skins. Here kitty, kitty, we call
and curiosity comes crawling out from under as cat with claws uncut.

Cute kitty, come catch, we call through the forest foliage, fooled
into thinking we are the keepers of the cage within this corner
of creation in constant recreation all around us.

I thought us all thoroughbreds, better bred, slices of a bigger plan
but it’s true that thought is not to be trusted, not all that is kneaded
rises as we were led to expect. We are busy bakers, blindly baking
in ovens too hot to hear our hunger, too closed to be open to our urges.

Cast out of kitchen we cower as canines caught between the cage
and the carnal, praying for peace with paws ready to pounce
on all possible prey. Falling on four feet in the forest already fading,
we are shadows of former selves, cut and claimed by the marks
our own malice has made of us. In the forest falling no one hears
the crazy cries of the lives who once howled only for the lilting

lullaby of love.