SNOW WHITE

 

I saw you, one morning,
blanketed in white,

a speckled canvas of virgin purity,
all colour lost out to a simpler shade of simplicity.
No more that magnificent mass of contrast and contradiction,
just quiet and gentle unencumbered distinction.

Distant laughter carried on a breeze
swirling round trees caught motionless in time,
branches bare but for the kind kisses of that slow falling snow.

I saw you like this, one ordinary morning,
as tears formed icicles on my face, snowflakes falling
from your skies to hide your valleys and hills

as my feet disappeared beneath the snow-white earth.

I saw you, like this, one extra ordinary morning,
and that long lost smile

reappeared.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Merry Christmas everybody, Dami xx

A SEAT BEFORE CREATION

 

Silent in her own darkness
she takes a place
by the canvas of creation
and before its stillness
she lets the light
pour over all
that has slipped
between the shadows.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo of La Fee Electricite by Raoul Dufy from Musee d’Art Moderne, Paris. 

 

CAPTURED ON CANVAS

 

Connie was caught by colour in the corner
of the castle where curtains collected
carnations. Connie was captured courting
curious on the canvas of a castle in a kingdom
condemned. Connie was caught by the kiss
of a courter in the courtyard where calla lilies
were cut. Connie missed the caution in the cut
of the calla while her courter crept away
with her coin. Connie’s forever captive on that canvas
in colour in that corner too curt with the kiss
of that courter now a cancer on her complexion
that no carnation covered curtain could ever conceal.

  

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo taken at Musee Bourdelle, Paris

FANTASTIC FLUTTERINGS, COLOUR ON CURT CORNERS

 

On dull days
when the sun
absconds from sky,
when grey grinds
gloom into gutters
and mothers utter
‘stay inside’,
children’s minds
flutter to unfold
like umbrellas opening;
colours cascading
over concrete clutter
like candy to calm
a calamity.

In the midst
of the mundane
and the murky,
inspiration catches
on the canvas of creation
like wings willing
to cut through clouds
and gain the grace
of the sun.

Children’s minds,
so magnificent,
hold matter so magical
that ordinary moments
can become such
extraordinary miracles.

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

 

THE IRISES OF OUR EYES

 

Crazed caught on canvas, caught in colour,
thought tempered in sweeping strokes,
we can be carried away in seas of grass,
coral greens awash in the garden,
catch the canvas before its fold finds favour
in other fields the mind has yet to fathom,
we can be crazy. Quick comes the crow
upon the harvest, bleak beacons,
art is not always to be understood
nor the artist always allowed the freedom
to express; we want cream walls
and canvases to comfort the canapé,
expression doesn’t always please the pattern.
Crazed comes to life on canvas, see
how he called to us; potato faced pickers
pealing in broken browns, aged in ochre,
acrylic is not a cover up, the canvas is not
a vision of vanity, even the sun flowers wilt
before the irises of our eyes. Fields, fields,
far flung fields of amber grain, far from home,
far from fame, trying to catch the elusive light
bearing down on the bails of honeyed hay
before the black wings hanging in the horizon,
painting eyes, other’s eyes for us to learn from,
to weep for the long loss after the colour
no longer connects. Quick, catch creation
before it catches fire, before it ricochets in a bed
in Anvers-sur-Oise, electricity only illuminated
the intensity, insanity is not always sedated
after the shock. Colour cannot be captured
by constraints in a brass bed with brown
leather straps. Colour is conveyed on canvas,
in connections, in the bend the brush makes
to blend, in the waves the stars twist
into that night sky, in the lines of letters
to brothers who know us to be better
than the light sometimes allows.
He was a captive to the colour,
a captive to the canvas, to the voices
dark and distant, cut it off and the voices
still come a calling. Capture colour
before they caption you as crazy.

     

All words and paintings by Damien B. Donnelly

34th poem for National Poetry Writing Month

A WHITER SNOW

As the sun still blazes through the shades pulled low, I found this older poem recalling the sentiment of another season…


I saw you,
One morning,
Blanketed in white-
A speckled canvas of virgin purity,
All color lost out
To a simpler shade of simplicity.
No more that magnificent mass
Of contrast and contradiction,
Just quiet and gentle
Unencumbered distinction.
Distant laughter
Sailed on a breeze
That swirled around trees
Caught motionless in time,
With branches bare but for snow
Reaching down to Mother Earth,
So proud to be born from Her roots.
I saw you like this,
One ordinary morning,
Alone,
As tears formed icicles on my face,
While snowflakes fell from your skies
Hiding your valleys and hills
And I watched my feet disappear
‘Neath the snow white earth.
I saw you,
Like this,
That morning,
And that longed-for smile
Returned.
For all has its season that crawls to an end
But the most hopeful in heart can rise again.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

COLOUR ON CURT CORNERS, PART 6; CAUGHT ON CANVAS

 

Connie
was caught
by colour in the corner
of the castle where curtains
collected carnations,
Connie
was captured
courting curious
on the canvas of a castle
in a kingdom condemned,
Connie
was caught
by the kiss of a courter
in the courtyard where calla lilies
were cut,
Connie
missed the caution
in the cut of the calla
while her courter crept away
with her coin,
Connie’s
forever captive
on that canvas in colour
in that corner too curt
with the kiss of that courter
now a cancer
on her complexion
that no carnation covered
curtain could ever conceal.

All words and photograph by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

STARTING OVER

First day,
first frost,
fragile steps,
crisp blanket under foot
on grass like glass.

Crisp air,
slow movements
susceptible to change,
to ticking time,
travelling through
like the snow flakes
on sturdy shoots
above warmer roots

Fine day
for starting out,
finding freshness
in the unforeseen,
favouring the future
on lists
that never linger long,
resounding resolutions
penned in dissolvable solutions
on crisp sheets
all shattered
before the sun
can melt the snow.

A blank page,
a clear canvas,
crisp to caress,

careful how you press.

We are each of us
snowflakes
falling
through twisting time
undefinable,
indescribable,
irreplaceable,
often unreachable,
looking for a leaf
to light upon,
a place to rest
on this new day
in this new year.

Crisp white hope
glistens on fragile branches
that are already bending…

 

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

SEASONAL SHIFT

I shift like nature, calling snows
To coat me, cover me in a crisp
Canvas of change to bathe in,
To be reborn in, before I skate away
From winds that wither my world.
Bone chilled, I can wander off
To warmer shores, eager for sun
To sooth me, to sink within me
In the form of friend, in the hope
Of something more significant,
Safely steering past the storms
Sent solely to scare, to remind me
Of nature and it’s naughtiness,
Prickling and pruning me, nipping
Away at my every blossom, often
Plucking me at every possibility.
I can be a season of hurricanes,
All harshened and hardened
By human history. I too can tear
Through territories and leave
My markings. I can command a sea
Of storms, all of my own making,
And rise a wave to part the oceans,
To aid me in my crossing to a new
Wide world of my own creation.

BLANK CANVAS

I thought it lonely
To be together
With so much standing
In between,
But now,
In this solitude,
These moments tick
Like echoes
Of what’s been lost,
Like laughter
Now fading,
Like love
Now separating,
Like the time shared
Now a fragment of another life,
Another hold we let go of,
Another force to fragile to fight.

I though it lonely
To be together
But this solitary life
Is not the picture
I wanted to paint,
There is too much still life,
All but lines and lessons,
No rhythm,
No reason,
Only a melancholy
In its lack of movement.

White,
Black page,
Blank canvas,
Again?