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, Dublincommemorating Ernest T S Walton (1903-95), physicist and Nobel laureate and the first person in history to artificially split the atom.


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