concrete

BOOKENDS; ALL THE WATER CARRIES OFF WITH IT

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There will always be a part of me
standing by the water’s edge,
watching how much of us
got washed away and wondering

how much more sunk so deep
below the surface that it is now
a captive more to your careful concrete
than that ever coldly cutting current.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly.

This has been a month of saying goodbye to Living with Paris in order to move on. And so Stephen Sondheim comes to mind and the lyrics of the song Move On from the musical Sunday in the Park with George, based on Georges Seurat…

‘Stop worrying where you’re going, move on…
look at what you want, not at where you are,
not at what you’ll be…

I want to move on, I want to explore the light
I want to know how to get through, through to something new,
something of my own, move on…’

 

Here’s to getting through to the light and the newness and moving on. See you all on the other side… 

Dami xx

BOOKENDS; UNDER PARIS

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Caught is the consciousness in this constant climb,
in this city of constrictions and its current

that constricts
and I can’t catch a breath. And the barricades have broken.

Baffled by the beat my feet can’t follow and I am swallowed,
sinking in this city of stone swamps and its concrete

that compresses
and I can’t get a grip. And the barricades have fallen.

Stoned is the spirit of a soul now struggling
through these streets of revolutions and its suburbs

of no solutions
and not a single resolution. And the barricades are weighing.

Turmoil was her Troy as this place is my poison
burning through this body of burdens, wondering

if it was seduction or abduction
that imprisoned us both under Paris.

Are we to be buried beneath body and barricade?

  

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

Remembering and moving on, a Month of goodbyes in Paris

BOOKENDS; WHEN CONSIDERING WHAT TO WEAR

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I was always looking to find the lighter side,
the brighter side of your cold concrete
cold corpses once carved into your concerns.

You were papered over in such pomp and circumstance,
such rigidity and reformation from centuries since removed

but I found, once we pealed back each other’s layers
that breath lingered behind all that had built up around us.

Naked can be the hardest choice to make but can also
be the most comforting when carefully considered.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This month is about pealing back the Parisian layers and saying a goodbye to all the beauty that lays behind the dust that time has gathered over the gold.

BOOKENDS; TO BE CAST IN SOMETHING OTHER THAN CONCRETE

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Would he cry now for the concrete
that has taken root in reality,
this was never what inspired his impression.

I shiver sometimes when I slip to the edge of this shore
where George saw more in suggestion
and Stephen gave names to the dots.

Balance and harmony are hopes, not foundations
but you wanted me to lay down in all you had built
before you even knew my name.

We are all artists; drawing, singing, writing,
directing, searching for our spotlight on the stage

or along the shore.

You wanted us to be a monument but I knew
the concrete would crush my concern for creation.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly.

Georges Seurat painted on Sundays in 1884 on Ile de la Grande Jatte, an island on the edge of Paris. Before I left Paris in 1999, my boyfriend would come over from London on weekends where we would walk along this island looking for the light and balance Georges had painted in dots onto his canvas, while humming the tunes from Stephen Sondheim’s musical Sunday in the Park with George.

GONE, THE GARDEN

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Gone is the garden, we are paved now

in parts no longer potential to growth,
to goodness. And the crow caws
in the corner, flesh festering into feather.

Gone is the garden, we have paved paths

over all that was precious while thinking
thoughtless, if only we’d thought less
about what we wanted and more
about what was needed. And the crow
cowers in the corner, questioning
what has become of its celebrity.

Gone is the garden and we can never
go back; the lock now lost in lyrics
too light, in the songs surrendered
from all that was soul to just sold out.

Gone is the garden, gone to graze

over another galaxy not yet grown
greedy, we are now alien to all
the earth has asked for, strangers
to the simple sand that sweeps the shore,
and stranger still to the starlight
that shines through its last breath burning.

We are the crows, cawing over concrete,
in corners, claws cracking in our chaos

and confused as to where went the worth.

   

All words and drawings my Damien B Donnelly

This is a repost (from my Joni Mitchell series) for a week of considering creation 

IMPRESSIONS

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Gentle breath
All as yet an impression
Morning yawns with uncertainty

Thoughts flicker on skin
Hairs rise to signal the day
My body stirs to the stillness

Feathers flap
Cracks are caught in the concrete
Roads are not the only route

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

UNDER CONCRETE

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We seek shelter from the sudden sun
within this city of concrete class,

everything here is concreted,

change is considered
but takes centuries to occur.
I have been asked for fax numbers,
offered cheque books and been told
that fibre is only forming and would dial-up not do?!

We seek shelter from the storms
here in this city that sites class and culture

above the chaos that is corrupting.

Everything here is cornered in concrete.

Shadows have been whitewashed
and the pigeons sprayed
in a shade of peace
the seers cannot swallow

I watch the streets be swept clean
of history, locals reopening in boroughs
they’ve been blighted to,

to Hell or to Connaught
we were once told in Ireland,

from Paris to the peripherique

is the new phase as designers dig up
the bones of the barely dead,

so our city can look chicer, sweeter, safer.

I seek the only thing time has taken.
The past gets further while the shadows get stronger.

We seek shelter
under palaces still being prized
for their no longer pristine polish.

A second star does not a paradise make.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

FLEETING BLUSHES

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–

We drink eternity,

soft, slow, salty,

like coffee cups

of unexplored ocean blues,

breathing in dark stars,

bleeding in the wake

of the wild breeze

that has no home

in these fatherless trees,

eyes moist by this window of time,

a prisoner of this smoky glass.

We are porcelain colored in concrete,

a brilliant blush of delirious desire

before decay.

All words by Damien B. Donnelly and gifted from today’s magnetic poetry oracle.