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 a 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
that cannot be fazed.
Over a series of Sundays, in this park, on this island, in Paris, Georges Seurat painted Un Dimanche apres-midi a l’ile de la Grande Jatte. Stephen Sondheim later brought life to the characters within the painting and connections to the artist who died before the world recognised the talent he poured over his canvases in the musical Sunday in the Park with Georges. A few years go I wrote this poem on my first exploration of this little island, less green and more concrete now than in his day, but still with dots of colour and light and harmony…
Georges.
Colour,
he saw colour
in a park, a simple park
on a Sunday, in the summer.
Colour,
he painted colour
in that park; clear, considered
untainted, untampered
colour,
specs of colour,
rays of light
in a park
on a Sunday, in the summer
in a season of details, in a salon of specifics
under demands to consolidate, co-operate.
Colour,
he saw colour,
a canvas of light and colour,
a carnival of colour.
Colour,
he saw colour
in a park, on people,
simple people, working people,
fishing people, fidgeting people
not polished people, not posh people.
They buried him
in a park,
another park,
a quieter park
but still with light and colour.
They buried him
and then they buried his son
and then another,
life and death,
father and sons,
children and art,
children or art but only art survived.
He saw colour
on a Sunday, in a park, on an island, in Paris,
to the left of it’s center
and there he made a difference.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Winter 2018
Damien B. Donnelly 