As the sun
stole a kiss
from the moon’s decent,
I caught the curve
of her blinding veil
coming down to cover
her clenched claws.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
As the sun
stole a kiss
from the moon’s decent,
I caught the curve
of her blinding veil
coming down to cover
her clenched claws.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
You can bury only bone,
battered and broken,
with a rose to bounce
upon the cut of the coffin,
but this ancient thing
that sways day into night
will not wither as our flesh
falls from the light.
Into the open earth
we cast our demise
as time turns onwards,
even in a box of stilled eyes.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
You there, yes, you,
checking out your hairdo
with your books begging to the opened
or your totes from Thomas’
cutting across this triskeled campus,
teacher or seeker or refugee looking for a rest
along the rocky road of resistance,
stand still for a moment and see beyond yourself,
your day, your demands, beyond all these fleeting reflections,
stand here, in the stillness of our spinning space
and see Einstein’s apple orbiting all that has now become known as Nobel,
in the almost saturated silence listen out to the whispers
that first became wit and then became wonder,
that gave Walton reasons to ponder.
See multiples of yourselves
in these spheres as singular blocks
building on our ability to be better beings,
to give more meaning to all this matter, here,
in these courtyards of conversations
housing halls now held in high esteem.
Can you see, within these curves of light leaning,
along these lines of longitude cutting through latitudes,
the circles through which we navigate,
the atoms, the Adams, the objects,
the Eves, the masses pushing outwards,
the energy pressing inwards, the people passing on.
Stop, for a moment and release all that you were
and make a place for all that you will become.
The atoms came first and then we bit into the apple.
I wonder if it made us any brighter, lighter?
When you look into these globes, do you see a reflection
of all our energy or is it a projection of what is still to come?
All words by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph taken from the internet of Apples and Atoms, a sculpture by Eilís O’Connell at Trinity College, Dublin, commemorating Ernest T S Walton (1903-95), physicist and Nobel laureate and the first person in history to artificially split the atom.
I walk under the bloom
As branches bend with beauty,
Not all perfection is weightless,
Even the blossom must bare its
Burden upon a branch
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
We stop and start
like trains
caught between tracks,
caught between the gaps
of where to go
and how to get back.
We stop and start
like trolleys
left wheel veering right,
right wheel now left
of the centre
but the centre falls apart.
We stop and start
like breath
the taking in and letting go,
the filling up and that feeling
of deflation
as the air of our space is dispelled.
I am made
of minor movements
performed at high speeds
on packed platforms,
before halted at temporary stations
that bare no regard to my route
or my rhythm.
I consist of baggages
within carriages,
not always connected,
my head in the trunk
and my feet walking blind
through corridors
that follow no order.
I am oxygen,
a vessel of the big O,
I have no room really
to hoard,
I can only board,
my belongs are as temporary
as this element my lungs;
kiss, caress and release.
We stop and start
and start again
and then stop.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Round runs the route over rolling rocks to mouths of baying blue where sand is seduced by the suckle of the sun soaked shore as diamonds dart above the depths. Cut is the coast into rugged regal, beauty the more buoyant when more is taken and the frailty unfolds. By this bay of breathtaking, this sway of sky and sky, we shuffle in small steps over simple stones that have known stars long since lost, that will be washed by more waves than we could ever swim in. Feet will find footing here but their thread will be tethered only to temporary when put to the test. Beauty is breathtaking where nature is the breath and we, never around long enough to be able to truly take.
Though the rocks rumble
it’s man who will fall to soot
before stone to sand.
The oracle speaks:
Go Goddess,
chant my wants on your wind;
elaborate fluff & lazy diamond dreams,
whisper me with delirious honey,
drive me to drunk, to drool,
I will lick language languid
from the beauty of your breast.
Sordid is screaming
but I hear a sweet symphony
has grow upon
those smooth skins
of your garden.
All words by Damien B. Donnelly with the aid of the oracle, obviously
All photographs by Damien B Donnelly
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