colour
RUNNING THROUGH THOUGHTS IN A PARK ON AN ISLAND BY A RIVER IN PARIS
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 an 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
the rest that cannot stay.
All words and photographs of Ile de la Jatte famed by Georges Seurat by Damien B Donnelly
This is a repost for a week considering creation and how it flows around us
WORDLESS WEDNESDAY, PICTURING PARIS
MUSEE MARMOTTAN MONET…
The Monet Collection…
Mondrain exhibition…
Gerard Fromanger exhibition…
All photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
FANTASTIC FLUTTERINGS
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
This is a repot for a week of colourful imagination.
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
COLOURS IN THOUGHT
Colours flap in the wind, colours catch
the feeling of freedom at daybreak
like thoughts taking flight in dreams
under blankets, mounding over molecules,
making matter meaningful. Dawn’s dew
delights in seeds now stirring under soil
just as stars shine significance on a mind,
on a pillow, at play. There is movement
beyond the trees and the run of the riverbed
if you can catch it. There is movement
in the dreamer beneath the blankets
and the shuttered eyes if you can wake it
to the colour, to the moment of possibility
in flight…
like colour on concrete,
like a bare bench in the waiting park,
like trees attending to shooting buds,
like a river of thought that cannot be abated.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly
This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo from Ile Saint Germain, Paris.
CAPTURED
Light catches glass, catches colour,
creates contrast on walls and water.
Light leans in and leaves illusions
on lines where once there was shadow,
buildings become boats baring sails
to beckon the breeze which billows
at its ease through colour caught
on glass which is captured in light.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Photo of Louis Vuitton Foundation, Bois de Boulogne, Paris.
WILLING TO BE WONKA
Up and through, through colour to brighter,
better, perhaps. I’m next, she says, up
and over, following underfoot the man
with the hat who’s had enough. Off with hats,
top hats and hard hats, happy heads float
through colour, dissolve, he says, into columns
of colour, preconceptions passing now,
no longer cornered by constricting contraptions,
sink into that which was once solid, release
the routine with the briefcase, the blindness
and the budget and slip swiftly into a world
of hope on a wall, on a roof, there is no ceiling,
no limit, imagination has no holding in flat,
in all that seems futile, gone are the grey days,
grey ways, grey suits that ground down, freedom
is but a jump up, sideways, over and under,
this is just a waiting room, close your eyes, feel
the weight shift, slip, feel the worry ware away
between suggestions someone else has painted
on that which was once static, which was once
only a support, imagination is a jump up
and through, pink can be your sky if you rise
above those who tell you it’s blue, the sea can be
your heaven if you can get through the clouds.
Up and through, through all that binds you, bonds
are only walls waiting to be splashed with colour.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly
This is a repost for a week of colourful imagination. Street art from Parc Belleville, Paris.
PURPLE CLOUDS
In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind
plants grow down
from purple clouds
carved of cotton catchable candy
and seek substance
from the surface
and not the ceiling.
In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind
fences are painted
with faces familiar
and mouths to catch kisses if you’re quick enough
and embraces
sprout like brush
to cradle comfort.
In that garden
of the many meadows of my mind
music spreads like ivy
a chorus to cut the chaos
and a crescendo of colour like a flower unfolding.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
This is a repost for a week at looking at clouds
Damien B. Donnelly 