Yesterday The Hedgehog Poetry Press released a viewing of the cover of my debut poetry collection Eat the Storms.

When I was 16 yers old, I wrote a letter to myself and filed it away in the back of the attic. I found it a few years ago and it reminded me that I was expected to become a very famous fashion designer, that I should clothe the world at ridiculous prices and be interviewed on Fashion Television by Jeanie Becker and also have a poetry collection published by the age of 30.

Well, I worked around the world in fashion, as a pattern maker, for 20 years, the most expensive brand perhaps being Calvin Klein in Amsterdam and the coolest and most recent being & Other Stores in Paris- a name which suited me very well. And now, 15 years later than planned, as I settle back into life at home in Ireland after 23 years away, my poetry book is being printed and a dream is becoming a reality. I think that’s the 16-year-old kid currently doing cartwheels in my belly, otherwise it’s just nerves.

The book will be available from 17th September with pre-sales a little earlier. You will be able to purchase signed copies from me here on the blog via the Book Store page, from The Hedgehog Poetry Press Website and from

In the meantime, if you are you looking for more information about The Hedgehog Poetry Press, its creator and its authors then come back soon as I will be starting a series of interviews with Mark Davidson, its creator and some of the Hoglets as they launch new collections. Stay tuned for more information. Meanwhile The Hedgehog Poetry Press can be found at…


Wind runs wild over sun-burnt grass, leaves fight longevity

despite destiny,

only trunk will triumph over time-
odd to think you were once a shoot someone let shine.

I’ve cut down so much in these past days

trying to find a path between space and this place
once again taken root under the footing I pressed but lightly

into its soil.

Nature is nonstop, as is time and tide and ties that are forever


only to twist again into holds more sophisticatedly complicated
than before.

Wild runs these winds over things not yet tossed.

All words and photos by Damien B Donnelly



Clouds congregate under summer skies, standing towers,
still, waiting for Napoleon’s rise. Up close, only echoes
of history hit the hollowing rock below- coming in
to slip out with more, in search of possession on another shore.

There are footprints on the beach- horses hooves
whose metal shoes now feel the rust of the sea’s salt.
Up close, the scent of his wet coat is carried on the current
like a boat that twists and turns until it hits someone, out of sight,
who wonders why the wind carries on it the might of something wild.

I watch from the seat of a bike, wondering why I fear the water
and if I will end up as a ghost to the island that watches me
from every cut of this curious coast. Up close, my heart begins to trot,
in anticipation of movement, of having undone the knot, seeking out
new scents, climbing old towers where well-sighted soldiers
where once posted, spreading my footprints along the edge
of the tide before the waves wash them far and wide.

Black horse dances where windows once watched for war.
                      After falling, you can only surrender to beauty.


All words and photos by Damien B. Donnelly



I was in Paris at the time-
drawing rabbits on chalkboards
in an Irish pub, on a Friday,
in a cut-off corner of Chinatown.
Joanna had studied in Queens,
Mum was over from Dublin
and Anna and I
had promised each other
forever friends
though we barely survived
the slow pull of a decent pint.

Some dreams are not for daylight.

It was Easter- hence the bunnies,
and I dropped the chalk
when the tv turned to home-
suddenly eager for everything
to be penned in permanent.

Later, in Dublin, Mum met him
at a Do at some hotel.
I have to shake his hand, she’d said
and so she did.
The hand of Hume. A hand
that had held itself out to hope.

We were in Paris, at the time
but still the streets hushed
at the hero we’d found in Hume.


All words by Damien B. Donnelly


Who knew rocks left actual human shaped footprints

It’s wordless Wednesday but it you are looking for words to read, visions to marvel at and a deep dive into poetry then look no further than Black Bough Poetry’s latest anthology, currently No.1 on Amazon for poetry collections and our WordPress muse Merril D. Smith is onside it, not literally but her wonderful poem is!

Cheeky selfie by one of the many Martello Towers, build as defensive forts along the coast in the 19th century in fear of Napoleonic Invasion

Inside #DeepTime, Volume 1 from Black Bough Poetry. And if you find it via @Blackboughpoems or its editor extraordinaire @MatthewMCSmith on Twitter then check out the link to the recordings the poets made reading their poems and the beautiful mind-blowing musical score to accompany this book by Stuart Rawlinson

Seals! Waiting for the sun to bathe! Seals. On the shore! Chilling! Go on!!!!

All photos by Damien B. Donnelly