And a little colour added from nature…
All photographs by Damien B. Donnelly taken on the grounds of La Foundation Cartier pour l’Art Contemporain, Paris
Author: deuxiemepeau
ME ON THE METRO
It was this morning and yesterday again,
a smell, a scent, on the metro, in my nostrils,
a decent into the memory, a revery playing, replaying
while the crows counted Round Here, they sang,
this year and that other year, all at once,
we sang our own song, once, once, once
but time, like the metro, took us off and on
into different directions, obligated to other distractions,
men and marriage, movements and meanders,
an Irish song we sang, you sang, I listened
and then I left while you stayed on,
stayed on track in that other year
but I came back and you were still there
still here, Round Here, as the crows sang,
are still singing, those counting crows
their words still ringing
in my ears, today, on the metro,
with that scent, that odorous accent
that opened a gap in time between yesterday,
when we were young, and today,
grown worldly and wider,
this morning as my mind rushed
and passengers crushed onto carriages
commuting, lines crossing, junctions joining
as I went to work remembering who we were,
I wore waistcoats even then and you a brown coat
that caressed your curves and concerns,
I went to work while traveling onwards,
along the same rails,
in the same direction
as before but different too
some things old
and some things new,
still me on the metro,
still me and there’s you.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
A Little Vow Left Dead
This is Jennifer Calvert from Ink and Quill- read, listen and hear the beauty of her words and then go to her blog and checkout how beauty grows…
I made a promise,
A little vow,
Whispered on the wind,
Pledged –
Guarded,
A curse to my weeping heart,
What will take to hold you dear?
To feel the stir of your emotions,
To taste the passion of your lips?
What can I do to move you to tears?
To assure you, my eyes are rendered yours,
Sheltered by the shift of your indifference,
A shield maiden I’ve become,
Moved beyond recognition,
On meadows lost to night –
Stars behind the clouded skies,
In grapping wound, the bite of your words –
A tongue lost in the shallow on your mouth,
The promise of our love,
Biting down,
The tears, which fall,
Mingled with blood –
Shed,
Dried in withered waste,
A flower shrivelled inside my head,
Emotionless,
You sink your teeth, further into my skin,
The hole,
Left,
To fill,
To seal the hurt within,
A promise broken,
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Friday with Georges, Centre Georges Pompidou
The modern art museum built inside out, towering above the city and bursting with creativity
Going up
La Tour Eiffel is never far from view
Picasso
Juan Gris
Warhol and Taylor
Gerard Fromanger
Cafe Georges
Castles in the Sand
Miss Jones
Looking down on life
Reflections at the exit
Inspiring ceilings
Going down.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly at the Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris, France.
CATS AND DRAGONS AND BROLLIES
And so lives sound,
a chorus of sound, a glorious cacophony, a clatter,
a sound of ladies looking, laughing, touting, shouting
a shuffle of feet, tiny feet, tiny ladies, on a tiny street, on the ladies street
with brollies, bright brollies, tartan brollies, cheap brollies, silly brollies,
bending brollies, brollies broken by the sound of the rain falling down,
of the ladies laughing, of the buyers buying, of the colours clashing,
brollies battered by the weather, polyester being pelted, pounded,
brollies held by ladies, as they barter, as they battle for the better buy,
the ladies at the ladies market, in Hong Kong, on a Sunday
and I’m jet lagged and bargained out
and that bitch saw me coming
and is laughing at me going,
holding all my money
in her hands, not mine!
And so lives sound,
raindrops on tartans
and high pitched voices,
squeezing, screeching
and giggling, always giggling
and golden cats nodding,
nodding at golden dreams
as tiny feet plod in puddles,
ladies feet in little puddles
that are free, the only things
that are free on Sundays
in the rain, at the market,
the ladies market and I bought too much Kitty,
too much kitsch, too much crap but it’s market day
and I’m jet lagged and the little ladies are scary
and my head is weary, big feet in little puddles,
foreign puddles, in China, in far away China, big trouble in little China
although it’s not so little but filled with big chips and cracks
and nodding cats grinning in glaring gold,
do you need shades? They have shades
on a tiny street with towering blocks chipped and cracked
and looming overhead, in the clouds, drowning in the dragon’s breath
but there are lights and movement,
a chorus of lights, a cacophony of movement
and the lights are bright and the buildings broken
but the movement is magical.
A dragon starts dancing in the distance
with men underneath, a polyester dragon,
a pink polyester dragon with many legs
moving, marching, mens legs on the ladies street,
on the ladies market, winding through the ladies faces
and shouting and bartering and rubbish,
in my bags there is rubbish, seriously overly priced rubbish
but I’m smiling at the faces of the ladies and the dragons and the legs
and dodging the brollies, the bobbing bright brollies, all racing with the dragons,
on Sunday, at the market, and the dragon is marching onwards, ever onwards
and the cats are forever nodding or bowing or laughing on the dark side of the day,
on this ladies day, on this Sunday, at this market, while the foreign rain is falling.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph taken at the Ladies Market in Hong Kong.
https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/cats-and-dragons-and-brollies
TUMBLE WEED
I lost my way
amid the rushes,
between the bushes,
torn from thorns,
as I turned and tumbled,
was twisted and thrown
and that day the sun burnt
like a blazing beacon upon my body.
I lost the path,
parted from perception,
a play of nature’s deception,
the nature of nature,
as I faltered and fumbled,
was fooled and fowled
and that night the stars stared
like sentinels upon my shadow
but,
along the midway of the midday,
the world wound round
and its spirals knocked me down
while the towering trees
threatened me with their trunks,
turning and twisting
out of shape,
out of sight,
out for rape,
for revenge.
I lost my way
along the track
trying to find my way back,
gaining nothing on the gate,
as my grounding gave way
to a growling gravity,
to a sudden surge of velocity
and I,
twisting like a tumble weed,
caught up like nature’s seed,
wondered if I’d ever be freed.
Twisting through the tracks,
through the bushes
as movement rushes,
tumbling through the well threaded track,
all footprints being pushed back,
twisting and turning
and tumbling like tumble weed,
like nature discarding a troubling seed.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photographs taken by the underground caves in Maastricht , The Netherlands
Paris in Pictures in a Saturday morning in the rain, reflections, universities, bikes and buildings
All photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
A CHANGE TO THE PROFILE
Xavier never realised how entwined love and loss were.
At 48, he’d been married to Sylvie for 12 years.
Sylvie could run the world while juggling pasta, blindfolded, in stilettos.
They had one child, Bastian.
He was 8 and already in love with little Mathilde, next door.
Husband, father, architect; that was his profile.
It was Sylvie’s birthday in one week.
Mathilde’s mother was going to babysit Bastian.
Xavier was taking his wife to Le Dôme.
Sylvie would have loved it if had the car stopped in time, last night.
He lost his wife and a word from his profile.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
THEIR SPOT ON THE HILL, 100 WORD STORY
The light was losing itself to shadow.
Only a suggestion remained of what had once been.
The seas and the seasons had taken the rest.
He struggled up the hill.
He stood again, after all the years, on their spot,
on the whips of life tenting up through the dead grasses as the ruins watched him.
She’d been 19 when he asked her to marry him there.
She’d worn her mother’s perfume and a smile.
He’d only been 17 but he’d found all he’d ever needed.
Goodbye, he cried into the shadow of the day as he released her ashes.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph of Dunure Castle along the South Ayrshire coastline in Scotland.
STRAWBERRY GUM, 100 WORD STORY
Michael was 18 and wore yellow trainers.
He had dark curly hair which he hated.
He had his whole life planned out.
Kathy was 17 and was happy to be in his plans.
She wore skirts in winter and pants in summer.
She liked gum, strawberry gum and Michael.
He’d kissed her at Becky’s birthday party, three years ago.
On the back porch.
On the cheek.
She’d blushed.
He was her hero, first.
He wanted to protect her from everything.
But when Michael discovered the army, Kathy broke it off.
She hadn’t realised his plans could make her a widow.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Damien B. Donnelly 