dreams

THE HAND OF HUME

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

 

I was in Paris at the time-
drawing rabbits on chalkboards
in an Irish pub, on a Friday,
in a cut-off corner of Chinatown.
Joanna had studied in Queens,
Mum was over from Dublin
and Anna and I
had promised each other
forever friends
though we barely survived
the slow pull of a decent pint.

Some dreams are not for daylight.

It was Easter- hence the bunnies,
and I dropped the chalk
when the tv turned to home-
suddenly eager for everything
to be penned in permanent.

Later, in Dublin, Mum met him
at a Do at some hotel.
I have to shake his hand, she’d said
and so she did.
The hand of Hume. A hand
that had held itself out to hope.

We were in Paris, at the time
but still the streets hushed
at the hero we’d found in Hume.

 

All words by Damien B. Donnelly

AFTER W.B YEATS

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5 Poems based on lines from W.B Yeats…

‘And I shall have some peace here, for peace comes dropping slow,’
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
W.B. Yeats

Slow Falling

Snow falls behind the glass, beyond the reflections
this window cannot see. Snow, soft as the soul;
a canvas of white fleeting purity, as pure
as that first kiss; always caught, never captured.

Slow falls the first snow as fine as feathered fragility
like that first time, as tender as it was terrifying;
the feeling of discovery, the fear of being discovered.

Slow comes the season, and we are seasonal,
and we too are seized; were we not yesterday daisies
dancing on hilltops, a spring in our step and blind
to the slope, were we not once sensory below the sun,
bonds burning along bodies bare, but now,
beneath the snow, red reigns regal, enfants eyeing
the skies; hushed and hopeful before the innocence
falls from their belief, falls like this snow, this frozen
miracle already melting hearts we’ve had to hide
from the cold and we can be cold, like the morning’s
first breath beneath the crippling clutch of winter
when his touch is too far to find.

Slow falls the snow beyond the glass, beyond the shattered
reflections of a world of riots and reactions, slow falls
the snow and I think of peace and of people parading
under its hush of hope. Snow falls and I wonder
how it would feel to have a season of slow falling peace?

 

‘I wander by the edge of this desolate lake where wind cries in the sledge,’
Aedh Hears the Cry of the Sedge
W.B. Yeats

Buoyant

Is it here where the tears come to find peace
in this place of serenity?
I lay down this lake of loss,
hope for the soil to soak up the sorrow,
by the side sedge I wedge myself
up from the waste and bury all that turned base
at the bottom of this bed,
no longer sheets of cotton comfort but sludge
soon to be swept under, asunder.

Is it here where reality ripples into reflection,
the sinking illusion of what I thought to be
perfection?
An impression of light and shade, now lighter,
now shadier, now just a remainder
waiting for time to submerge.

I lay down in this lake; a lough of loss,
locked, lost,
waiting for the tide to wash over me,
waiting for the tears to dissolve within me,

waiting for time to refine me,
re-find me as buoyant instead of beaten.

 

‘And when white moths were on the wing, and moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream and caught a silver trout.’
The Song of Wandering Aengus
W.B. Yeats.
A White Wing Rising

A starlit day, on a distant shore, as if summer had sent it
swarming like a snowflake; silken wings to summon
the sunset, a white moth to raise a sweet soul departing.

And there, as a star was added, the bright moon was kissed
in berry blush as the sun settled beneath the lake
where the lost trout turned through tresses of silver dancing
and he smiled at his love, since lost, now glimmering

in eternity.

 

‘And suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven.’
The Cold Heaven
W.B. Yeats

While You were Dreaming

And as you dove through distant dreams
just beside me, you left to my centre,
I woke to the night sky splitting above me,
the stars were burning, bleeding through
the darkness as the heavens opened,
their gates no longer golden as the
rooks took flight, soaring into my fright
here in this cold night as you tossed
through thoughts and I watched mine
beating, beaten with feathers on fire,
the disparate darkness drawing delight
in my downfall, in my blindness, and you
turned in sweeping motions, your back
to me as I should have done, as I could not
and I wondered where you had wandered
as I was culled into consciousness, frozen
by the flames and shivering, were you
moving through memories we made
or making room for more to come
in other beds, in other arms, and then
befell the bodies, bound, in chains locked,
in flames crying, cursing, trying to pull
apart bonds that should have broken,
and you turned again and your arm
came over my chest and the vision
was smashed in contact, reverie
retreating but the burning continued.

 

And a final poem recalling his unrequited love…

Toppling his Tower

What can I lay by the feet of such beauty?
What can I offer my love on this land?
A garden of roses, omitting the thorns
with this golden ring I hold in my hand.

But a garden of roses, omitting the thorns
is barely enough to garland your grace,
so I’ll pave you a path in the finest fabric,
a velvet so sweet to mirror your face.

So I’ll pave you a path in the finest fabric,
a cloth of brocade to comfort your cares,
a daylight distraction to hold your attention
from rebels and riots that are not our affairs.

A daylight distraction to hold your attention
to paintings and poems that hang by our side
in a tower I’ll build you to keep out the cries
of a world lost to power and drunk on its pride.

In a tower I’ll build you to keep out the cries
and a lark then from the meadow I’ll borrow
so she’ll sing of the stars and the moon that is ours
as we’ll lay in arms and let love sooth the sorrow.

But restless was her soul on the call from outside,
her beauty diminished by the sounds of their cries
and one day he lost her where his paved path divided
and he cut down her roses with tears in his eyes.

I gave her the finest, the fairest and fancy,
I gave her the beating heart of this man,
but she was bound to the call of the lost and the lonely
which now I have become and therein I see her plan.

  

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly. Inspired by W.B Yeats 

Today is the 155th anniversary of W.B Yeats. Thanks to Jane Dougherty from Jane Dougherty Writes on WordPress for running A Month with Yeats back in 2016

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SUPREME

/ deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

 

I loved China Beach, as a boy and its opening
theme tune- Miss Ross belting out her light voice;
Reflections of the way life used to be, reflections of…

I was too young then to understand anything deeper
than the melody that rose in me while the meaning
sank,

of an age then that had barely left any marks
for time to reflect on later, after.

Youth is too light, like her voice was, to be consumed
by thoughts of things concerned with used to be.

They were lovers and friends and mores and lesses
playing other tunes by the shorefront firelight-
reflections in the flames. All heat and hazy.

But there was a war too, of course, for these medics
and the soldiers they were saving while I pondered
free love and long youth

but now, looking back on the way life used to be
a week ago, a month ago, I see how, even then,
a nurse could rise to be a hero.

And so she sings; Through the hallow of my tears I see a dream…

 

All words by Damien B Donnelly.

Photograph of China Beach TV Series cast pulled from the internet 

BY THE TIDE

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There, by the water’s edge, where kids collect sand in pails as if a piece of plastic can save time, he watches docking ships report their findings- new worlds beyond the old waves he never managed to rise above. I had the urge for going, he recalls saying once, when he could run faster than those kids who cannot yet count time. There, by the edge of all that cannot be measured, old dreams dreamt in younger days float out on a wave that drowns the acrid air while he comes to regard the castles his grandkids have captured in the sinking sand.

The sand is to shore
as the ship is to the sea
dreams rest in between.

 

 All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

AL LAST

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Shoes thread lightly
over freshly stirred soil.

Seeds are no longer singular cells but shoots
and this hardened carpet no longer compliant
to cover up.

Sometimes we plant with the dream
of discovery.

Sometimes we dream in the hope
of being woken.

Sometimes
light begins in the dark

where roots rumble in soil, now stirred.

Green grass decides, at last,
to admit that being buried

was only the beginning.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

FINDING OUR WAY

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I woke early, attention tethered to the bird call
as they build their nests within the walls
we once lit fires between. Regardless of season
we must all find ways to shelter and survive.

I ran early, out into the open morning where air
was still yawning and I thought about sleep
and what it takes to catch a dream at the far end
of the wood when you aren’t sure of the way back.

I climbed the slow hill, with flattened breath
and caught two moons under the still grey light
kindly carved into the edges of memory
in this growing garden we water with tears.

I came early, to ponder position by tall towers
no longer watchful with feet that haven’t settled
while the sun, I cannot see, casts its light
onto two white moons above a thousand eyes

no longing seeing.

I woke early and still came up upon the moon.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

THE THINGS WE LEARN, AFTERWARDS

/ deuxiemepeau / 5 Comments

 

In a fat box by the skinny bed
in a dusty room rarely regarded
covered clumsy with crushes
are the contents of a childhood-
lost letters of love- all penned
but never posted & cut-outs
of pin-ups next to wrist bands
friends twisted & time forgot.

In a lost room fallen to dust
hope was a cradle of comfort
in this box her father opened
when she failed to come back

from a war she never wanted.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Written as part of the Cobh Writers and Readers #PoetryPrompt featured on Twitter. Do drop by and join in the creative distraction. @CobhWR

QUACK

/ deuxiemepeau / 7 Comments

 

Solitude will guard gentle breath
as I slip from darkened day to dream,
even if the daffodil, now bright upon the bank,
comes despite concern.
I smile as the memory of this kindhearted bloom
unfolds within the shadows of this stilled room,
here, where corners ponder the importance of a cell.
In the distance, I hear a duck quack
as I return to the credit of comfort the pillow provides
and close my eyes to the sounds of madness.

 

Written as part of the Cobh Writers and Readers #PoetryPrompt featured on Twitter. Do drop by and join in the creative distraction. @CobhWR

EARLY AUTUMN

/ deuxiemepeau / 4 Comments

 

The sky is burning,

the last light eclipsed by the night
and we stop and stare like fools at its blaze,
not seeing within this gaze possibility falling
though our hands like snowflakes in a season
that has kept captive the summer.

The sky is burning

while we travel in taxis, all of us
back-seat partakers being driven down roads
we know not where they lead as our minds run
tattered threads along all the tracks we wanted to press
with our own print but we cannot choose a direction
like a snowflake cannot control its pattern.

The sky is burning
with a fine filigree of fire and ice,
with thoughts we try to catch hold of but flames
are ever changing as no snowflake is ever the same
and we take hold of other dreams others dreamt of
in other beds, under other skies blazing
through futile snowstorms and we melt,

like a snowflake
in the dry heat of an early autumn.

 

All words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly

COLOURS IN THOUGHT

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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.