Words and painting by Damien B. Donnelly
TIDES
Poetry
THINGS THAT CANNOT BE TOSSED
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
breaking
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
BLACK BEAUTY, THE LIGHT IN LOUGHSHINNY
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
THE HAND OF HUME
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
NOT ALL CREATURES CAN BE CRUSHED
Not all creatures can be crushed-
some lords have lizard skins
beyond the light to slip from.
Behold, stilled soil
but the other side has been broken.
All words and photos by Damien B Donnelly. Photo taken at Pere Lachaise, Paris
THAT WHICH IS MAPPED OUT FROM THE START
There was always an end
Even before we started
To circumnavigate
Time’s tock-
Listen
Still
Hear it
Winding back
To that first tick
There was always an end
We
Were
Just greedy
Like composites
Wanting to be primes.
All words photos by Damien B Donnelly
LEARNING TO CLIMB WALLS
There can be earthquakes
in little towns,
far from tectonic plates,
on little streets, rarely shaken
where we sat, once,
on the wall of a garden
now obsolete,
the summer burning
through our cool-lessness
as we trembled beneath attractions
we didn’t have the words
to understand
while eyes watched from windows,
trying to translate
thoughts tossed
between their local boy
and a sandy-haired student of exchange.
And I wanted to exchange-
to uncover
all that was growing curious.
We sat on this wall, once,
in the kiss
of youth’s sunlight,
in the stifling days
of undulating adolescence
and the growing tension
beneath every question,
and that temptation-
and I wanted nothing more
than to touch that temptation
despite our twisted tongues
and those eyes
always watching, always wondering
what was unfolding between us-
two boys just beginning
to join the colours that made blue,
for a while, beneath the weight
and the worth
of all the nothingness
that never trembled
for longer than a month in the summer
when our legs
occasionally touched, like tectonic plates,
shifting positions beneath
all that was once solid,
sensations rubbing up against
all that we wanted
and what, I suppose we knew,
at the time, we could never really have.
There can be earthquakes, in little towns.
All words and photos by Damien B Donnelly
RED
We strike matches
along the shiny skins
of polished apples,
bite into the heat
of burning coals
that hold no seeds
within their core,
watch our reflections
on the heavy skins
of those ripening fruit
as if it will show us
a truer representation
of who we might be
because it too holds
a core beneath its skin
while the ashes add
a bitter fruitlessness
to the taste now thick
upon our tongues.
If we were obliged
to share, perhaps
we’d take more time
to peel back slowly
instead of striking
all those matches
that burn too quickly
while guiding blindly
all those ashes into
our oh so open mouths.
All words and photos by Damien B Donnelly
KEPT IN RECESSES OR THROWN TO DUST
Old wheels still turn through new miles.
We are more than we look- muscle
is not only what it takes to transform.
We skirt old roads now well educated
on my departure, it’s not just the seasons
that circle back on themselves. I’ve left
parts of me in every other recess in order
to recognize the parts I portrayed, later on,
when the route returns me to worn road.
I peddle at times without predetermination,
you cannot lose the track if you haven’t
traced its outline, beforehand. The road too
is more than just a route as we roar along
its rigor despite its restriction. I was never
happier than when taking the dirt track-
scattering over-weighted thoughts
of who I was upon the disrupted dust.
Old wheels still turn through new miles.
All words and photos by Damien B Donnelly
IN OR OUT
Lilium lancifolium lies back
in a bed we repositioned
last spring under the scorch
of today’s mid-afternoon melt.
In a slow movement that set her
into structure, before the dawn woke
the rest of us, she assumes a position
to demonstrate the perfect pliancy
of her freckled petals and pushes
everything out to be eaten.
Next to her majesty, in the sluggish
shade of a white pot on the worm-
twisting soil, succulents seal in
all they will ever need to survive.
Somewhere in between I, myself,
am planted with all that I hold vital
willingly caged within these ribs
not even I can open while my fears
sway like stamen from this skin
as I pray for the wind to soon
introduce them all to flight.
All words and photos by Damien B Donnelly
Damien B. Donnelly 