Poetry

STILL A SWAY TO THE FINAL ANCHOR

/ deuxiemepeau / 6 Comments

 

Sea claims what man can no longer cradle
but time’s tales can be freed from nasty nets
when the wreck is beyond want, when the cable
has been cut and we come to the call of the current.
Rough becomes rust becomes wrecked becomes ruin,
might becomes memory. Day is done but night unfolds
tales of tides that were tamed, slim seas that harboured
heavy hopes in trusted holds. We dive and then differ
on the return, are undone, unmasked, back to bone-
a battered beauty, once a witness to the wild waves.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

Written as part of the Cobh Writers and Readers #PoetryPrompt featured on Twitter. Do drop by and join in the creative distraction. @CobhWR

AFTER THE TIDE

/ deuxiemepeau / 8 Comments

 

Light.
These are the days
were we look to see
where the light lingers longer.
We rise like crabs
up, after the tide has fallen,
up, through solid sand now sinking,
we can only wait so long-
can only hold so much weight
(in these days where we cannot hold at all)
before we cannot wait any longer
to touch the light,
catch a breath,
feel the sun.
Burn.

Come,
catch the light-
a bright distraction in the darkness.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

 

Inspired by a #PoetryPrompt on Twitter from the #PoetInResidence Catherine Anne

Cullen at @PoetryIreland 

OTHER WAYS TO DANCE

/ deuxiemepeau / 11 Comments

 

I weigh flour and sieve it, like snow falling-
a few select seconds of harmless dust
to decorate these stopped streets
with isolated sirens that stir more in body
than the contents of this bowl.
I reach for those tiny flakes that offer rise
before pouring over the honey-
a smooth sweetness to cut the bitterness
of all that cannot be held in isolation.
Oil comes next, with the water,
once called incompatible
but when all else is distanced
other things find ways to dance.
While it boosts by the window
in a bowl of sunshine,
we take a slow stroll along small paths
that meander through muck and memory.
Mum points to a rickety door
she once knocked on to buy milk,
only a jug left now in an upper window
holding moments that will evaporate.
We pass fields and wonder
that is leek and what is weed
and in our minds make lists
of all that still grows in open pasture
while aisles look empty indoors.
Back home we sit, after bread is baked,
finding comfort in its crisp corners
as butter melts over this uncertain heat
and we remember yesterday,
when life was as simple
as a slice of bread with butter running.

 

All words and photographs and bread by Damien B. Donnelly (bread recipe from The Happy Pear)

Inspired by a #PoetryPrompt on Twitter from the #PoetInResidence Catherine Anne

Cullen at @PoetryIreland 

IMG_7441

QUACK

/ deuxiemepeau / 7 Comments

 

Solitude will guard gentle breath
as I slip from darkened day to dream,
even if the daffodil, now bright upon the bank,
comes despite concern.
I smile as the memory of this kindhearted bloom
unfolds within the shadows of this stilled room,
here, where corners ponder the importance of a cell.
In the distance, I hear a duck quack
as I return to the credit of comfort the pillow provides
and close my eyes to the sounds of madness.

 

Written as part of the Cobh Writers and Readers #PoetryPrompt featured on Twitter. Do drop by and join in the creative distraction. @CobhWR

THE POLITICS OF A SHAMROCK

/ deuxiemepeau / 11 Comments

 

We stopped the telly and the tea to watch the thunder
on Thursday; 1-100, 2-100, 3-100 we counted
in between the light growing dimmer and that storm,
coming closer.

We watched from distant windows, catching breaths
in between fears of catching colds while next-door
neighbours pulled curtains over concerns, here,
in a country where we thank the drivers of busses,
a country now the bearers of the cleanest of bottoms
whose aisles run empty
while out in the fields I see nothing but bounty.

I wish I had a river I could skate away on- I hear
the song but we can’t all slip upstream like the salmon,
these are not the days of the dance
and knowledge, until captured, is not a cure.

We packed up Patrick and his party with handshakes
and other saints for other seasons,
swapped the shamrock for a dozen hand sanitisers
and will drown out all fear in Dettol this year.

We stopped the telly and the tea last Thursday
to take stock of the storm, trying to capture
in the sky all we couldn’t see with our eye,
and all I saw was an eagle;
sitting shameless with a bowl of shamrocks
by an orange coloured man in a white house,
a far cry from the panic raining over my house.

We stopped the tea on Thursday to watch the thunder.

 

All Words and Watercolours by Damien B Donnelly.

 

Written as part of the Cobh Writers and Readers #PoetryPrompt featured on Twitter. Do drop by and join in the creative distraction. @CobhWR or follow the link below…

https://paperneverrefusedink.com/2020/03/14/cobh-readers-and-writers-writing-prompts/

 

1847.1490.164

/ deuxiemepeau / 5 Comments

 

Slow is the swan along these tracks well torn,

my feet tire in soft shoes that follow google
as scavengers’ swim in closer to my scraps-
braver the bird when hunger’s the only hold.

Swift runs the water as if it didn’t want to stay,

there are locks but not all lakes can be held,
not every belly can hold so much emptiness
and Naomi not the sweet swan to set you free.

Slow is the pace from midland to new world,

a shot rings out, rumbles from feather to wave-
but too late is the fall for the rest who fell,
bodies are buried at sea and only time forgets.

In 1847, the worst year of the Great Irish Famine, 1490 tenants were evicted from the estate of Denis Mahon in Strokestown and escorted 167km on foot along the Royal Canal to Dublin where they were shipped off to Liverpool and from there put onto ships, like The Naomi, setting off for the New World. Denis Mahon was later assassinated in November of the same year while almost 1/3 of those who set out on the route to Dublin, the coffin ships and Canada never made it.

 

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

UP FOR AIR

/ deuxiemepeau / 5 Comments

 

Diving is not that difficult-

I’ve held onto trickier things
over time than just this breath.

Diving is not what’s difficult,
not that descent into darkness-

it is the light that blinds,
it is the sun that burns.

Diving is not that difficult-

we swim into silence,
current cuts movement,
we make moments of a sunken stillness

and surrender.
There is nothing shocking in surrendering.

It is not diving that is difficult

but climbing back up, breaking out,
letting go of being held, of being weightless.

Diving is not that difficult-

difficult is letting go of the fear
that you’ll have forgotten how to breathe.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

Photograph taken of the Haenyeo (female divers) sculpture on Jeju island, South Korea.

A POEM IN THE ORGANIC POET

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Happy Sunday to you all and Happy Saint David’s Day to any Welsh ones out there.

Last week I was invited to be the guest poet by the The Organic Poet. This is a wonderful platform celebrating positivity and togetherness.

My poem is called Sweet Things and highlights the joys I am still rediscovering after my return to Dublin, Ireland. Please take a moment and stop by if you have time, They are curating a lovely collection of artists. Clink below…

https://www.theorganicpoet.com/post/sweet-things-by-deuxiemepeau

RANDOM REASONS

/ deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

 

I live in a country
where people say thank you
to the drivers of busses-

honestly.

In the mornings, on school runs
and city excursions,
a country where people say thank you
to the drivers of busses,
even at middle door exits
where they’ll nod, all the same,
to the front, to the driver
in that cordoned-off cabin-
in case of commotion-
they’ll throw down a gesture
or the wink of an eye
that says thank you for the bus ride,
that says thank you to the driver
of the bus who’s inside.

I live in a country
with those giggling girls
I could’ve clattered this morning,
those giddy little girls with their gangly limbs
which they swung across aisles
like granny’s long knickers
in the garden on lines,
swaying our patience
off the handrails, this morning
like J-Lo’s but younger.

I live in a country
where these 5-year-old rascals,
who I pictured pounding beaches
for equally thick things to trample,
all scurried off the step
while saying thank you to the driver
of the bus they’d just battered,
Thank you, sir they said
and then jumped into a puddle
and splattered.

I live in a country
where people say thank you
to the drivers of busses

and I realise why I came home.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

 

Audio available on Soundcloud:

#TopTweetTuesday

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Tomorrow is Tuesday but not just any Tuesday, on Twitter it’s #TopTweetTuesday thanks to the wonderful poet Matthew M C Smith, editor of Black Bough Poems and author of the superb poetry collection Origin: 21 Poems (buy on Amazon and read ‘Footprints’ and ‘Daughters’ and you’ll see why it’s unmissable, passionate, thought-provoking, and he’s Welsh- so what more reason is there to adore it) and it’s a day where one poet hosts and all other poets are invited to come by and share one of their poems or the poem of their favourite writer of the moment and the host comments on it and reposts it so even more people can see it and read it and share it and love it. It’s about loving poetry and raving about it and sharing it.

Well, tomorrow I’m the host, so if you’re on Twitter and have a poem that you love and want to share then it’s easy- either drop by @blackboughpoems to see how it works or just type @blackboughpoems and #TopTweetTuesday and @deuxiemepeau into the tweet along with your poem and whatever else you want to say and off we go…

 

See you all tomorrow, on Twitter.

Wear something fabulous and share something even better.

#TopTweetTuesday