Month: October 2019

A SLIP AWAY FROM BLUE

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Eyes a slip of grey from blue in a city not known as home,
on a mountainside to shelter a temple,
she is as welcome as the wind is warm,
she was there before us and we were caught before we knew it.

She carves life, carefully, like the Buddha etched into stone,
the chisel is the compliment to the rock and not the ruin,
an outer expression of inner contentment,
a monastic monk on a meditative mountain and I fall
between the stillness that rests behind each word.

Did her mouth smile
or just her eyes that shade of grey a brush away from blue
as she takes us to her temporary temple of wood and wonder
and shares with us a simple feast on a sweltering day
a treat along the trail, a rest upon the journey,
a moment to bear witness; not to be greater than the Buddha,
not to rise higher but to reflect on what we can become.

We climb over rock and broken earth,
diverge through dead ends that still deliver more light than loss,
we thirst and tire and then take in another treat; another temple, another tree,
a smile from the locals who look and laugh
and wonder why we came and what we will take back.

We travel on and place our tired feet into holds others once held to
as we witness wonders so many others may never see.
We have sat and shared joy like food, laughter like it was love
and coffee like it was an elixir to let us in on the light that lingers over life
and the eyes of the gentle light from Lithuania,
a slip of grey from a sea of blue
seeing the simple synchronicity in all that is true.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly. This week’s theme is South Korea and recalling the travels though it and the faces found along the way.

WE WERE NOT DESIGNED TO SELF -DESTRUCT

/ deuxiemepeau / 4 Comments

 

Fans open like a chest catching air,
clouds sweep the mountain like a bellow baying,
colour is just a caress away from grey,
a breath can be unbearable if the body is breaking,
a cloud is a cup of rain not fully considered.

We climb over mountains to where the air is lighter
and prayer almost a palpable palace of peace, 
the sky comes down to press its fragility upon our flesh.

‘Even a storm can break,’ I hear the wind whisper,
‘see how the roof slopes; you can only put so much weight
upon a single structure.’

I stand below a giant bell, its ring rung out
but it’s echo is like a yellow earthquake;
still rippling along the fans of these red roofs.
It is not over just because the earth stops shaking,
we still tremble, long after, and carry in our veins
the fleshed tattoos of how the web once caught us,

like an old map of one country now torn into a fear and a freedom.

Fans open, another echo, another cloud comes down, comes closer.
Take smaller steps, don’t miss out,
don’t outrun the rivers of colour in this drying earth,
the clouds that will, once again, pour like a fountain over fragile flesh,
don’t miss the bellow that will roar a fresh breath into battered body
in this land so still with movement, still moving,
still sacred, sacred and still and silent and wise and wonderful
and singing out over the silence for more and more and…

‘Even a storm can break,’ she said,
even something as strong as a storm can eventually break.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly. Photographs taken at the Beomeosa Temple in Busan, South Korea, June 2018.

BOWING TO THE BEARERS OF LIGHT IN THE SHADE

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We break from the path to follow the light,
light that has no alignment to direction,
to road or wood, less wandered or not,
light that touches trees that have known
more darkness than I will ever close my eyes
to see and still they stand to catch the light,
looking like leopards now with their spots,
spots of light, speckles, a sparkle in the shade.

There is a boat, waiting in the bay, by a break
in the trees, a small boat, crossing the currents
that curtail time, it has seen more storms
open out than I will ever shut shelters from,
even in that little bay, where the bark breaks
for those towers of trees that could tell tales,
out beyond, out yonder, where the light
is brighter, lighter, where the grass growing
golden meets sweetened shore, growing shorter
but sweeter too, a boat that waits to bring us
to the other side where I hope the light can still
reach us, teach us not of direction but of how
to be a bright spec that can sparkle in the shade.

  

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly. A week of recalling travels through South Korea, 2018. Photo taken in World Heritage site of  Hahoe, outside Andong

TO LEARN TO TRUST WITHOUT TURNING

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Time swims out on a tide I wish I could
capture forever on a canvas of comfort,
I drop my shirt and turn, like Orpheus,
and lose hold, sands slide over skin
and seaweed slivers snakelike
along this shore once so unsure;
rough rocks recall all the lava once
eliminated. I stand in all the stillness
that once roared, even as the tides
tempt my feet to come out further
into that bay of blue forever. The sea
is breath taking and days later
all breath seems lost and I wonder
what the wave took with it
and where is my Eurydice now?

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

A poetic week recalling the currents of South Korea, 2018

SUCH MOVEMENT BEHIND A SETTING SO STILL

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Silver sky settles over sun-soaked sea
where we watch the future ripple reflections;
cranes in the corner of Korea coming closer
to a mountain once central to the frame.
Silence and simplicity have never shaken
with such an uncertain stillness.

 

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly. This week’s ideas come from last year’s travels through South Korea. I took this photo on Jeju Island in South Korea.

COLOUR DANCES LIKE A FLAME OVER CONCRETE

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Colours catch fire over concrete, catch life, catch the laughter
that will not linger for as long as this concrete. Measure moments
not in length but in weight, weight, don’t wait to catch life;
it is cold to be concrete and watch the flames flicker out,
to be caressed but never considered consumable.

We tried to catch the fire that burnt through our time, tried to clamber up
and over the volcanoes tearing terrifying tracks into all that grounded us.
But there were cracks in our concrete, sparks of colour, yes, but specks
of weight too, too much weight, too little breath. Fire steals oxygen,
colour cannot cover over all the chaos, makeup is something we use
to cover a bruise, colours catch fire even when never considered consumable.

Catch the colours before the fire captures all in concrete.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This weeks ideas come from last year’s travels through South Korea.

I took this photo at the Changdeokgung Palace in Seoul.

 

SUNSHINE AND SNOWFLAKES

/ deuxiemepeau / 11 Comments

 

I climbed you today in downpours
and falling snows, no snowflake
ever the same, no footstep ever similar,
I climbed you today in sunlight
and stealing shadows, in strokes of paint
splattered in your memory by artists
as foreign as they are familiar,
I paused upon your steps, your streets
of steps, the steep steps others have taken,
others have trodden on, to take possession,
to take pictures, to take part, to be a part
of all that once was and has fallen to dust
through depression and recession,
no sails blow any longer to the wind’s wills,
the winds upon your hills no longer home
to the mills, no more the spirits linger
green to the fairy’s touch, spirits are in bottles
now, corked and capped and cost too much
and the artists now are but a shadow
of what once was, shadows for sale
on the site of what once held cause,
on this martyred mountain in Montmartre.
I climbed you today in wind and rain,
the past and future present, in a reverie
of what can no longer be, I climbed you
and stood above you and marked out
the steps I had taken along you,
along your lines and lanes that lead me
here, to this day, to this moment,
to this place as this snowflake fell,
this unique particle never to be repeated,
falling through the delicacy of creation.

I climbed you today and could hear
the train beginning to pull out of the station.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

For a week of considering creation.

HEMEROSCOPIUM

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I
build
sentences
in the mind
that had no
existence before,
a platform to ponder
in a place that doesn’t
exist, in truth, until it’s been told.
I move through this hemeroscopium
like an architect building a house
into a home, unearthing light
to contrast the shadow
my thoughts have
been confined in,
a helix that
spirals out
from within,
that will return
and move on, return
and move on, up towards
that light turning transparent,
sentence into substantial structure,
considerations becoming concrete
clarities that form walls, fold out
into roofs that consider creation
compulsory, stories rising from
basements, tales spinning
off, casting reflections
upon the windows
of this place,
this mind
that watches
the sun rise and set,
time twist and turn, again
and again, the circles, always
the spiralling circles, even in a straight
sentence, even in a slotted surface.
I build spaces to house beds and
beams and bright lights to lie
before this tower of truth
and watch the visions rise
and fall, like the sun, like
the laughter, like life,
like tales, like
sentences
that never stop
while always changing,
an ancient arch now foundation
to modern moment, a true temple
of contemplation in this space holding
space, light and space, shadow and
space, sentence and space, space
between the sofa, space
between the
syntax.

 

All words and drawing by Damien B. Donnelly

Hemeroscopium is the place where the sun sets. An allusion to a place that exists only in our mind, in our senses, that is ever-changing and mutable, but is nonetheless real.

This is a repost for a week considering Creation

RUNNING THROUGH THOUGHTS IN A PARK ON AN ISLAND BY A RIVER IN PARIS

/ deuxiemepeau / 5 Comments

 

I slipped off to the edge of the city,
this morning, where the stream found a stillness
and the air a crispness that kept confusion at a distance.

I stood beneath the bridge
that took the traffic and its tension far from me
and found the swimming swan rising higher in the stream,
the follow-on from the floods that now seem so far
with these skies of blue, speaks of colour
in a park, on a Friday, in February,
where an artist once came to paint.

A park, in Paris, on an island,
by the Seine, where the waters wash with colour
when you look beyond the shadows, a new rise
basking in the glory of what was once regarded
as great, by those who regarded the value of greatness.

Straight and tall, shiny structures shoot up,
like soldiers, by a stream ever in movement,
ever following the route,
today’s design will be tomorrow’s sign
of an age the river has outrun.
I see trees towering tall in waters,
once rising, now falling, still strong, still weathering
the storm, still willing to be remembered, like an artist
captures beauty, captured beauty, in a park,
once, on a Sunday in a time since parted.

Nature is not in our control,
nature is willing to withstand all our wilfulness,
will not drown in these days of destruction,
will not worry, as we do, will not bend
but will let life flow around it,
in hope, in harmony.

In a park, on a Friday,
on an island, by the river,
in jogging shoes and sweatpants,
I ran through days already distanced
and tried to make connections between the road
winding onwards and the trees rising upwards, like the water,
rushing onwards like time, ever at play with its participants,
with all that it connects, with benches for the breathless
to recapture breaths and wheels
to help us follow the stream.

And in the windows
I saw reflections of those towering trees,
never to be forgotten, blue of sky in the beauty of light,
light and harmony, colour and shade, captured in what is new,
a hint of what knows the bounty of age.

And on the river, by the park, on a Friday, in Paris,
I stopped and saw my reflection in the gentle waters
and in the waters saw colour, colour and light,
by a boat, in a park, in a city ever changing,
where an artist came to capture it all on a Sunday,
a simple Sunday, not a Friday but a Sunday, searching
for something between the shadow and light,
between all that will fade and all
the rest that cannot stay.

   

All words and photographs of Ile de la Jatte famed by Georges Seurat by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost for a week considering creation and how it flows around us

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