IN THE ARCHITECTURALLY FASHIONED MEMORY OF WHAT IS NOW MODERN

 

I am of an age that is ageless, the very essence
that lingers somewhere between shadow and light;
that indescribable grey matter separating all that
aligns itself with black from all that derives its purity
from white. I am the illusive thread tying together
the journey, the twisting and twirling of cloths weaving
together past, present and briefly imagined futures.
I am the force between that barely dreamt dream
of what will be and that longing, lodged in the memory,
that leaves logic out to recall that single magical moment
from that day, long ago lived. That room in the mind
that holds so tightly to that taste once passed over lips,
ripe for the tasting, I am the emphasis of purity
in the remembrance of that very taste. All else,
long since, fallen by the wayside or lost out amid
the uncertainty of what’s remembered and what’s real.
I am the playfulness of the light you see cast bright
on your tall towers with their windows onto the world.
I am the linear contrast of urban lines, rising sharp
and structured amid the chaos. I am the smooth sleekness
untwining myself from a frivolous mess. I am
the seduction salvaged from the superfluous. I am
the impression left on the skin long after I’ve parted,
the mark of what once was, what is and what will be.
I am what makes the melancholy magical, every mood
a melody; the manufacturer of the moments the mind
will muster. I am the lines that will lead you on, latitudes
to rise upon and longitudes to fill your form. I am a city,
seen from above, with straights of sky-scraping streets;
lean lines, lengthy and lasting, marching triumphantly
forward as if to herald one’s rise out of confusing chaos
and stake your claim to stand above, alone, assured
and reassured, calm and confident, always exceptional,
occasionally eccentric, uniquely independent and always
individual. Modern made from a blend of what is
both memory and what has yet to be. I am everything
you put on to be who you are. Yesterday you dreamt
of me, tomorrow you’ll remember me, today, you are me.

  

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly.

This is a Repost.

BEAUTY IN SPACES

 

There is a beauty within this space,
a creation considered
to compliment the concrete,
you can leave if you like
by the stairs or you can rest
for a while on the seat.

There is a soul within these veins,
a creation connected
to more than just the carcass,
you can leave if you like
by letting go or you can stay
for a time in the hold.

There are footprints upon this floor,
tracks that tingle
where others have thread,
weather will wither them
and winds will wear them
but they remain submerged, ingrained.

There are memories within this soul,
impressions that have permeated
and beats that have broken,
they are indivisible from flesh,
they are inseparable from spirit,

they are beauty within the space
of each and every person.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

This is a re post of one of my older poems

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

THE KIND OF CREATURES WE ARE 

 

Strange are the creatures we are
beyond the bones that break
and the backs that bare,
striving to question our own conception
within this creation ever depleting

(and yet we all want more).

Strange are the creatures we are
beyond the fingers that fondle
and the footprints that fade,
striving to find a love completely,
a comfort to cover the concrete

(that we poured on the soil ourselves).

Strange are the creatures we are
beyond the blood that feeds
and the flesh that festers,
striving to hold the stars in our hands
now that our planet we’ve pulled apart

(the greener grass of another galaxy).

Strange are the creatures we are
beyond the tongues that taste
and the eyes that envy,
striving to have all that we can hold
not thinking what we’ll leave behind

(not thinking of those we leave behind).

Strange the creatures we are
beyond the heart that hurts
and the needs not enough,
striving to stay afloat within the fear
yet laughing as we’re carried away.

Strange the creatures,
these creatures we are.

All words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly

COSTINGS

 

I read you
through pictures,
past and fading,
fast forgetting what it was
to be free,
what it was to be healthy.
I read you in
leaves that fall
from twisted trees
when summer is still shining,
when autumn has not yet begun,
when seasons no longer come when expected.
I read you
in rivers that are rising
and seas no longer salty
but bashed by bitter tears
the years have pushed with pollution
in place of finding a solution.
I read you
through hope no longer healthy,
no longer worthy to the wealthy
who’ve drained you dry.
There is no blood in stone,
there is no money making motive left unturned
but we are turned,
but we are undone,
have undone this wizened world
and home is now hardly a harbour
but a broken boat
waiting to be tossed from a world
once known, once cherished,
now blown to bits,
scattered fragments
like falling leaves,
like rising rivers,
like discoloured waters,
like extinct animals,
fading in pictures of what beauty once was
before man made demands without counting the cost.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/costings

ON THE WATER

 

In the morning
by the river
gently waking
all nature is reflected
in the slowly moving current
in the trees as they bare witness
in the grass as it bares its blanket

in the morning.

I saw you like this
at the birth of morning
as day spawned its dawning
as I rowed out onto the water
and I sailed on ever further
from the darkness into light

in the silent stillness of the morning

as if I were following creation
on back to its conception
as if all before had vanished
as if the earth had shed all blemish

in the stillness of the morning’s silence.

I saw you like this one morning
as I waded out into the reflection
on the river that caressed creation

in the morning, still and silent

like I were back at the beginning
to see how it all had started
before we stripped it, raped it, starved it.

I saw you like this
one morning
as I sailed
along the river
as I looked into the waters

flowing
forever onwards

and saw all that time could never capture
and a beauty we can never truly hold

and I wondered
who will worship
all this wonder
when we’ve killed
each other off?

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

The Bags@dB.d

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The Bags@dB.d

I know this isn’t Poetic or Pose but my site is all about creation and I’m taking a break to self promote another side of my work and shamelessly plugging my Tote/Market bags which I make to order and sell on Etsy https://www.etsy.com/shop/TheBagsdBd or via email on my website http://www.thebagsdbd.com.

Never liking to be boxed in or labeled, loving cooking (you gotta try my 7 hour Boeuf Bourguignon, 7 hours to cook, not eat), baking (the more butter and chocolate the better), interior design, singing (not always in key) and, of course, writing but fashion has always been a part of my life since studying fashion design at The Grafton Academy in Dublin, Ireland way back in the 1990’s and later working as a pattern maker for various fashion brands in Paris, London and Amsterdam, but for the past year I’ve been making these little bags which friends have been loving, so I now have a website and a store and the machine is waiting to create your personal order.

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The Bags@dB.d focus on a careful blend of the 3 F’sFabrics, Flare and Fashion aiming at Men and Women who like a mix of Solid Colours contrasted with Bold Stripes, while insuring every detail is Created and Crafted at Home, in Europe.

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The Bags@dB.d offer homemade Tote/Market Bags in Limited Edition Fabrics including textured cottons, canvas and linens, fully lined with contrasting striped linings, reinforced with heavy canvas for added strength with an option of either hand or shoulder straps and an inner pocket for easy storage of phones, wallets and keys- so more more rooting at the bottom of your bags anymore. As soon as one fabric runs out another fabric will take its place, making each small run of bags more unique. Swing tags are printed with a traditional wooden stamp giving it an added handmade feel. All bags are posted wrapped in tissue paper and packed in boxes to make sure they reach you as perfectly as possible.

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Drop by http://www.thebagsdbd.com to see the A to Z of the Making of The Bags@dB.d

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Check out the mini promo for The Bags@dB.d below:

All Bags, Photographs, Modelling and Silly Mini Promo videos made by Damien B. Donnelly

LIFE TIMES

In a time of love
My heart will beat
To your name,

In a time of hate
My heart will pound
With pain,

In a time of creation
I will water the seed
And the flower shall rise,

In a time of destruction
I will protect my love
And comfort his cries,

In a time of destiny
My path will become clear,

In time for the end
I shall have relinquished my fear.

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.

MOTHERS CHILD

We are carved and we are cared for,
Cuddled and coddled all our lives,
But we are, will always remain
A mother’s creation, the love
And labour of the hands
That first held us.

I see you
In me, in the minutes so simple,
In the moments so precious,
Sometimes so predictable,
Other times obscure.

I see you
In me, all your lessons listened to,
Learnt from, lived out, a part
Of me now, a part
Of who I am.

I see you
In me, in my ever evolving hands,
Fumbling along their lines of life
But I see your caress steering,
Guiding me on as I
Clutch, climb,
Create.

I see myself
In you, in your eyes, reflecting all
My passion and your pride
Of this gift you gave me,
This life, its laughter
And its love.

I see you,
Ignoring the separating distances,
The forceful waters that flood
Their way around us
But have failed so
In their attempt
To divide us.

I see you
Today, in that jumble of geography,
Challenging the mountains high
And the tides returning,
Unbreakable.

I see you
The light and magic, the mother
Miraculous, a million others
All waiting, wanting, trying,
A million babies, needing,
And still we found
Each other.

I see you
Right before me, yesterday, today
Carefully tidying up memories,
Gently tossing away tears,
Happy in what we had,
Forever soothing
My fears.

I see you,
Smiling. I see you, living, learning.
I see you in heels and happiness,
I have watched you forgiving
And forgetting. I see you
Laughing and loving.
I see you.

I see you
And through you I can see myself
And smile at all we’ve created,
Laugh at the joy we shared,
Wait with the breath held
For all that’s still
Yet to come.

I see you
Now, see the twinkle in your eyes
And I smile at the strength
You taught me.

I see you,
Like this,
Always.

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