Poetry

UNFINISHED

/ deuxiemepeau / 7 Comments

 

I am a being blown
from baby to boundaries
to bondage and breathless
on contrary winds
that offer no warning
and cast no conscience
towards direction, I am
a wave caught on a current
in a reversed ocean,
swimming up
to dive deeper,
going out
to come undone,
exposed
in my raw
unreadiness,
a photo
that hasn’t been shopped,
an unfinished portrait
of a person
I haven’t quite become.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Based in a Twitter Poetry Prompt for #DimpleVerse

I CAME TO THE CITY, MY MUSE, MISS MITCHELL

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My series of poems ‘I Came to the City” has been inspired by the music and artistry of Joni Mitchell, whose music I first head in a little back side, one floor up apartment in the Marais in Paris in 1998 played for me by my flatmate at the time Tambourine Therese and this music and visual art has never left me, hence this series of introspective, external, political, jazzy, rambling, rolling poems.

The ‘I came to the City’ title comes from the name of the A side of Joni’s first album ‘Songs to a Seagull’, the B side is aptly named ‘Out of the City and Down to the Seaside.’

Each poem followed the albums in chronological order from folk, to confession, to jazz, to restlessness, to the 80’s political unrest, to introspection, age, reflection and affirmation. Joni designed most of her album art and so I have taken inspiration from each cover to go with each poem in the series. Joni said once in an interview that after each period of writing comes a period of painting, although she was never sure which came first, the music or the art. Either way, this was my tribute to an incredible artist who has faced the spotlight and, in spite of its intensity and scrutiny, has remained one of the greatest and truest artists to put pen to paper, a voice to words and colour to canvas.

Below are the albums and my interpretations…

Thank you Joni Mitchell.

 

Songs to a Seagull, 1968

My poem, A Song for the Sleeping Bee: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/17/i-came-to-the-city-part-1-a-song-for-the-sleeping-bee/

Soundcloud audio: 

 

Clouds, 1969

My poem Potters on the Road: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/18/i-came-to-the-city-part-2-potters-on-the-road/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Ladies of the Canyon, 1970

My poem Gone, The Garden; https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/20/i-came-to-the-city-part-3-gone-the-garden/

Soundcloud audio: 

Blue, 1971

My poem Boy So Blue: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/22/i-came-to-the-city-part-4-boy-so-blue/

Soundcloud audio:

 

For The Roses, 1972

My poem Could Have Been More: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/23/i-came-to-the-city-part-5-could-have-been-more/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Court and Spark, 1974

My poem Longing; The Taste of Things to Come; https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/05/30/longing-the-taste-of-things-to-come/

Soundcloud audio:

 

The Hissing of Summer Lawns, 1975

My poem The Hissing in the Summer: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/25/i-came-to-the-city-part-7-the-hissing-in-the-summer/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Hejira, 1976

My poem Taxi Driver: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/26/i-came-to-the-city-part-8-taxi-driver/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter, 1977

My poem A Muse on a Rough Rouse: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/27/i-came-to-the-city-part-9-a-muse-on-a-rough-rouse/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Mingus, 1979

My poem The Sum of Who We Are; https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/28/i-came-to-the-city-part-10-the-sum-of-who-we-are/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Wild Things Run Fast, 1982

My poem Correcting Corinthians: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/29/i-came-to-the-city-part-11-correcting-corinthians/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Dog Eat Dog, 1985

My poem Appetites: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/06/30/i-came-to-the-city-part-12-appetites/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Chalk In A Rainstorm, 1988

My poem Capture Beauty: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/01/i-came-to-the-city-part-13-capture-beauty/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Night Ride Home, 1991

My poem Two Rooms in the Land of the Frogs: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/02/i-came-to-the-city-part-14-two-rooms-in-the-land-of-the-frogs/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Turbulent Indigo, 1994

My poem Turbulent Sacrifice: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/03/i-came-to-the-city-part-15-turbulent-sacrifice/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Taming The Tiger, 1998

My poem Lilting Lullaby: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/04/i-came-to-the-city-part-16-lilting-lullaby/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Both Sides Now, 2000

My poem The Other Side:  https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/05/i-came-to-the-city-part-17-the-other-side/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Travelogue, 2003

My poem Travelogue: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/06/i-came-to-the-city-part-18-travelogue/

Soundcloud audio:

 

Shine, 2007

My poem Confession: https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/07/07/i-came-to-the-city-part-19-confession/

Soundcloud audio:

 

All Words by Damien B. Donnelly. All photographs and artwork by Damien B. Donnelly, inspired by the visions of Joni Mitchell

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 19; CONFESSION

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

 

I have been courted
by counts and clowns,
too costly to count,
to considered to be questioned,
too comical to consider courtly
while in cities crowded with crossing carriages
and calm corners curated in comfort.
I have been coloured in, cared for,
cooped up, critiqued, cried out
and carried on, careless at times,
cautious at others,
I am creature creative
within this creation
in constant recreation,
a commuter
on this continuing carriageway
as cryptic as these clouds
of cotton-like complexity I cannot catch,
this carnival carousel of colours
not always complimentary
but of constant curiosity
that keeps on careering
and I am caught, concentric,
in consensual contentment
on its current that cannot be caged.
I came to the city,
this city, a city, other cities,
on a calling caught,
to cast all caution into the chaos
so as to compress the cost,
to consider the curve of common cliche
and covet the calling of the unconventional,
to cast a cry into the canyon
I have cut from my own carcass
so as to be counted as contestant.
I came in from the cold corners of complacency
where the crows were cawing callous
with the canines of carnality
to carve my confession
upon the confines of concrete
so as to comprehend the kisses I’ve captured
and the cords I’ve become a connoisseur of
within these courts that have contemplated me
and these circuses that have certified me
as compliant competitor.
I can only compliment the countless confusions
that called me careless
and I considered too crude to be counted,
but they count as the catalysts
that corrected my compass to
its calling within this circle
I am committed to seeing through
to its conclusion.

Shine on, shadowed sky,
with your stars like songs
singing along their sojourn.
I see sinister no more in shadow
and sight not always in sun.
We are seagulls and snakes
and saints and sinners
in the same situation,
searching for stimulants,
singing in unison
of our struggles and our strengths,
striving to see salvation in the spotlight,
searching out that spark to court
in sex and sense
that will send our souls soaring
into the stratosphere.
We are songs being sung
in a simultaneous serenade.
We are stars.

We are not nothing and never will be.

See how we Shine.

All words and photo collage by Damien B. Donnelly

This is the final poem in the series which has been inspired by the artistry of Joni Mitchell and each poem has followed her albums in chronological order.

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 18; TRAVELOGUE

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

 

I

In the park
bodies are bare and bending
in sweaty forms,
see the skin still salivating
as if fresh from the frolics,
when we were fondled and found,
some born to be bound
and then others;
fickle fools thinking thrusts
were as true as trust.

But truth is told only in time;
touch turns from tenderly
tempestuous to temperamental
and all too temporary.

I had a king
in a castle in London
who showed me Soho
and Shakespeare
and Sondheim and song,
I had a home
in the confines of concrete
with textiles and textures
and people who thought
I shouldn’t want more,
I was a shadow
of winter in summer,
I was a peasant
unprepared for the palace
of people and places and graces.
I was the blue note in a home
where I didn’t belong.

I was caught
and caged in the concrete
I had pasted and painted
with colour to keep out
the cold.
I was the killer
of kindness in the castle
when I couldn’t keep track of the ties
too lonesome to hold.

II

Truth, like ties,
are tenuous,
like I told him once
and he laughed
and I knew I’d already lost him.
We were drunk then,
daily, ravenously rampant
by the river, raising the rafters
of romanticism into something
more erotic as liquor left us
more likeable,
more pliable.
More, you asked,
more of more and more
and we were whores
to the hunger, fools rocking
on a trust, that I had told him,
would turn out to be as tenuous
as it was temporary.

My old man
was a funny one,
a drinking man,
a bottle collector
who liked me like his liquor;
in cabinets next to cast offs
and collectables he could polish
at his pleasure.
My old man
was a fond one
of class and culture
who liked his treasure
in bottomless glasses
and freshly pressed sheets.
My old man
was the party clown
when the lights were leaving
and the drink deceiving
and despondent, at times, I think,
to think that he could have been more,
to think that we could have
had more.
My old man
was a bottle collector,
a drinking man
of class and culture
but there wasn’t enough room
in the bed for us all
with the more and more and more.

The sun is shining now
in this park, over sweating skins
poised for it to be permanent
while I watch the clouds gathering
just beyond the tress

where the vultures
are devouring their own virtues.

III

Alone now,
a flight of feathers
free from all shackles,
walking the single lane,
secure if it is to be
for a single day
or forever.
Alone
and casting off
the cages that once encased me,
feeling strength
that has long since slumbered,
heading along the highway
and holding all that is truly mine,
slowly retuning
to my natural state,
my own body embracing
its bounty, baring its beauty
like the womb; nurturing myself.
Loving alone now,
getting to know the curves
and the quite corners
of this midway of me
and the miles I am making,
true to the tales
of my own travelogue,
all natural states eclipse
for in returning
to this part of me,
once pushed aside,
once cast out of spotlight,
I am moved,
almost elevated,
parallel to that
which I am bound
into becoming.

I am the waters
no longer resting,
I am the stream swimming
from the city to the open ocean
and already I can feel the breeze
that those bound parks can only ponder.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 17; THE OTHER SIDE

/ deuxiemepeau / 13 Comments

 

What is life
but a book to read
from both sides,
from either end,
from all there is to see here
below the constant clouds of consideration
and from far on high
where the clouds are carpet
and the stars are as close to perfection
as we can get,
for midway
through this meander
of noise and nonsense,
of love and what is left
in its place
when it has parted,
i am no closer
to the correct question
as I am to the unachievable answer.

What is love
but a sunlight
seen out of season,
a breath to better us
when there is no air,
a rainstorm
when all we can see
is desert dust
sweeping over the highway
where our hope is headed
while we are bound,
barely,
to faithful,
to fearless,
to ferocious,
as we falter, fail and fall
and rise again,
better for the bruises
ready for the next round,
prepared to bleed out
our lives along
this road we are rocking.

And still I can drink another case
of you, and you, and you, and you, and you…

What is life?
What is love?
What is the point in asking?

We are here…
happy, hurt, healing.

We have cut through the clouds
and reached the other side…

what more is there to fear?

All Words and Paintings by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

 

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 16; LILTING LULLABY

/ deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

I thought we were templates for tattoos to tell tales on,
I never thought to the tire skids and teeth marks time’s tiger
would temper on our skins. Here kitty, kitty, we call
and curiosity comes crawling out from under as cat with claws uncut.

Cute kitty, come catch, we call through the forest foliage, fooled
into thinking we are the keepers of the cage within this corner
of creation in constant recreation all around us.

I thought us all thoroughbreds, better bred, slices of a bigger plan
but it’s true that thought is not to be trusted, not all that is kneaded
rises as we were led to expect. We are busy bakers, blindly baking
in ovens too hot to hear our hunger, too closed to be open to our urges.

Cast out of kitchen we cower as canines caught between the cage
and the carnal, praying for peace with paws ready to pounce
on all possible prey. Falling on four feet in the forest already fading,
we are shadows of former selves, cut and claimed by the marks
our own malice has made of us. In the forest falling no one hears
the crazy cries of the lives who once howled only for the lilting

lullaby of love.

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 15; TURBULENT SACRIFICE

/ deuxiemepeau / 6 Comments

 

Mama was an unmarried mother
at the end of the summer of 75
as Joni hissed of the snakes
in the gardens of complacency
where ignorance was still very much alive.

Mama was only a girl in the growing
and possibly no more than just 18
when she bent down and placed
a kiss on my cheek and whispered
goodbye to her own little green.

Mama is someone who I’ve never met
aside from the dream I once had
of her life in a kingdom that ruled
you could not mother a child unless
at first you were a legitimate wife.

Mama was an unmarried girl one winter
in the arms of a man barely stretched
from a boy, her trust in the throws
that left little to believe in and a pain
that pulled on the strings of goodbye.

Mama was once an unmarried mother
and bursting with thoughts her shape
couldn’t hide, but helpless and hopeless
were not part of her form and so she did
what she could when you can’t be the bride.

Mama was a childless woman
when winter that year came cold with its calling,

and the tears started breaking

and the leaves began falling

like the water that had broken,
like the hold that had not held,
like the hope that was drowned,
and the hand that was expelled…

too short, too quick, too hard
too much to let go for good

and the snakes started hissing on the lawns.

Mamma was the unmarried mother
who gave me the greatest gift
that anyone could, of growing up
knowing that what she had done
was to give me up for a greater good.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 14; TWO ROOMS IN THE LAND OF THE FROGS

/ deuxiemepeau / 11 Comments

In days now distant we were back side, one-up,
apartment dwellers whose viewless windows
enabled us to see more through the darkness
than the light that might have deceived us.

Tambourine Therese tapped her tunes of truths
not yet tasted, sweet tumble leaves freshly fallen
from the trees in the apple orchard with the pink
ladies and golden greens begging to be bitten into,
we were innocence eased into a micro mini
of voluptuous velvet and the brown eyed boy
already broken on blue, we were scavengers
seeking the scent of salvation on the shiny streets,
saving up to buy into beginnings we could cut
cords on, we were lyrics yet to be licked
looking to Mitchell as muse; we were wild
in the old days and covering Carey and cases
of whoever might come calling on the Casio
in our little corner as we careered through
the no longer muddy marshland in search
of suggestions to rise in us seductions, thirsty
for tattoos to plot paths along our pale pinkness
so we could track our trajectory. Gone
from the garden we were growing into city,
held up at first in a hotel, hostages of homelessness
were we sang songs in the ignorance of our sorrow,
sweet birds of youth busy building nests
in the confines of concrete, blind to the battery,
we were born for the bloom but forging
that famed forever on a friendship
that failed us like the lie of a lead balloon.

In days now distanced from all that was once dream,
I have found form as lonely painter on a canvas
of winding words, the connoisseur of cutting cords,
often curt and callous, in the challenge to manage
the malice, trying to be fateful only to the fate
that awaits but caught at times, by cords
that cannot be cut, whose curious concerns
come a calling from cold corners I’d considered
closed. I hear you on the wind sometimes
still tapping those tunes I thought I’d forgotten,
as veins rethread the trajectories already taken
through my skin, no more so pink, no more
so fresh. Fruit fades but we find ourselves
reformed into fractures of what once was,
fragments unfinished, like filigree too fine
to unfold, like a dance as yet undone, a song
we had still to sing in this city I’ve now returned to
while moving on, slipping forward through shadows
now past, still building nests, still seeing better
in the darkness and touched, in that half-light,
by the purity of your sprite, once so fair, one so rare.
We fell so fast to finished and yet, as she sings
of the songs like tattoos, I’m reminded
of that one flight up that can never be diminished.

All words and photo collage by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 13; CAPTURE BEAUTY

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

 

Beauty is breathtaking
where breath is less
and beauty is all.

Beauty is breathtaking
before it’s been taken from you,
then we are no longer bound to blind
and breath is less and less and less.

We breathe in beauty
in excess
as if it were endless,
as if we were never bound to be less and less and less.

We are chalk
marked for a rainstorm.

We breathe beauty with every breath,
with every kiss caught from lip’s press,
we press beauty into flesh,
flesh fresh on beauty that is fleeting.

Kiss him back,
Kiss her again

before it’s gone.

‘Kiss me,’ she whispers with eyes eager
and he kisses her eyes
and her lips grow eager
to feel the beauty that is breathless,

that draws in each breath, less and less and less.

We are not bound to be endless,

we are chalk
marked for the rain storming in the distance.

And so we press more and more and more

falling into the fragile fold
that holds beauty as it is falling,

for we are falling
into life,
into lust,
into love,
into loss,
into all that will fade
when the rainstorm has fallen,

for we all are fragile.

Capture beauty
before the breath grows less and less and…

All words and mini college by Damien B. Donnelly

All poems/visuals in this series are inspired by the artistry of Joni Mitchell.

Audio version available on Soundcloud: