Dublin

I CAN DREAM AND YOU CAN LOVE: A KEVIN BATEMAN SPOKEN WORD EVENT

/ deuxiemepeau / 10 Comments

Last Saturday at 2pm in Ireland, Dublin, in the Phoenix Park, in the shade of a house and in the shadow of a tree in the sunshine, Kevin Bateman gathered together a group of poets for his latest spoken word event ‘I can Dream and You can Love‘ which went out live, as usual, on periscope and every poet was revealed there and then, no pre announcements, no listings of performers beforehand, as is so usual in these days of social media. Kevin indulges ingeniously in the mystery of the moments that unfold when a name is called before the camera rolling and their words fill the air and travel across the skies.

His choices for these locations are often sacred grounds, off the beaten track, forgotten by guide books and now, thankfully, reclaimed as the performances unfold. This last location in the Phoenix park was on the Hill of the Mariners were one of the oldest dolmans in Ireland is located, Knockmaree Dolman. Discovered in the 1800’s, two bodies were found in the tomb which dates back to almost 3500bc and the bodies were suggested to have been sailors, hence the name Hill of the Mariners. Watch the show and you will hear how it took Kevin almost 10 years to find this dolman that has been left to hang beneath a shadow of a tree, in the stillness of the silence, sometimes in the sunshine, often in the shade.

For this event, Kevin gathered 8 poets including himself and you can watch the video which had over 1000 views on Periscope in the first 24 hours of its life. The links below are for Periscope and YouTube.

The poets, who all performed 4 poems, under a theme of love, dreams and the current climate in Ireland, were, in order of appearance;

Kevin Bateman (on Twitter as @Bate_Kevin) drew us into the crime controlled streets of Dublin while leaving us tender with the line ‘…do not let the dead rest in photos, let them move on…’ from his poem A Room of Utter Sadness.

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Supriya K Dhaliwal (on Twitter as @supriyadhaliwal) painted for us a cornucopia of Indian colors and tears and whose poem Meet Me in the Morning on No Man’s Land will long linger in my ear as a beacon of hope.

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Jasmina Šušić enthralled and captivated us with her raw emotion, passion and her willingness to drop the guard and share her gentle side with We are Soft Animals but Our Hearts are Weak.

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I was lucky enough to be invited to perform among these precious talents which made this the first time to ever read my poems in public, to ever read in public! I read 4 poems which you can find here on my blog…

Spelling Peace https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/11/19/spelling-peace-day-19-of-a-month-with-yeats/

Carved In https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2015/12/05/carved-in/

Salmon Dancers https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2017/11/03/salmon-dancers-day-3-of-a-month-with-yeats/

Wilful in the Wild https://deuxiemepeau.blog/2016/07/27/wilful/

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Jessica Traynor (on Twitter as @JessicaTraynor6) struck a fire in our historic hearts with her gem of a poem Matches for Rosa, for Rosa Luxembourg and brought us right up to date into an Ireland of today, questioning the right for individual choice with her poem Tender Butchery, my own skin still shivering with the powerful line ‘…the world has no business wearing my skin.’

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Catherine Ann Cullen (on Twitter as @tarryathome), along with her ever listening dog,  carried us around the world on the triple spirals of the triskele and took us out and under the harsh waters of homelessness by the Royal Canal in Dublin with her poem entitled Flood, ‘…and they flooded the walkway… so she might float out of sight…’

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Eilín de Paor (on Twitter as @edepaor) pulled us in with unexpected treasures found along the way, a nod to lasting impressions still loved though lost and ‘an intimate poem for such an outdoor area’ Island Life where a woman surrenders to ‘…each suckling lap…’ of the first wave of motherhood.

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Maeve O’Sullivan ( on Twitter as @writefromwithin) also brought us to India and returned us to Ireland through two bejeweled haiku sequences and grounded the force of an ocean of love in the sonnet Fathomless ‘…the twist of your hair in my knuckled fist…’

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Periscope link: https://www.pscp.tv/w/bVcMWDFlUkV4cVlWVnhQUXd8MXZPeHdBTFhwRE1HQs6p0u7wzeWUvfUmOmse42HeaA_-COCeSHxdhfL9zQuH

YouTube Link:

Extra photos of the group are curtesy of Harry Browne who can be found on Ficker.com

And you can just see the deer above that was watching over us from the not too far distance…

A DEER BY A DOLMAN IN DUBLIN

/ deuxiemepeau / 8 Comments

–

Where you there, all the time,

I asked myself,

for I have not discovered

the powers of hindsight,

as our words wove

like the wind

around the whispers

the woods were once

witness to?

–

Where you there all the time,

I asked myself,

in that soft spot of spirit

in the fold of our minds?

–

I had whispered, along the way,

as feet caressed

the crumbling clay,

as a heart trembled

in a throat that tried not

to tumble through words,

I had wished for a grace

to ground us like that curve

of concrete on the caress

of the mound that grounded

what had once grown tired

into the ground.

–

You were there, all the time,

I told myself,

as I caught the river

as it cast reflections

of trees rising up

and roots growing down

and I realized

we are not just man,

we are not just the mound

we lay beneath.

We are inseparable,

like these reflections

sinking into the stream,

we are not one, but the other,

not beast or beauty, but both,

finding our way along the water

to a bed to call comfort.

–

You were there, all the time,

a dear Deer, by a dolman, in Dublin,

listening to our songs

of the living

and the loving

and the dreaming

and the dying

–

laying our poems

on paths already pressed

while the deer stood and wondered

who would come next?

–

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Group photograph by Harry Browne who you can find on Flicker.com

On Saturday 17th February 2018 renowned Irish poet Kevin Bateman gathered a group together on sacred ground next to Dublin’s oldest Dolman (even if no one talks about it, advertises it or sign posts it and it took Kevin 10 years to find it), Knockmaree Dolman on the Hill of the Mariners and poetry wound it’s way around the winds in the Phoenix park. I can Dream and You can Love is his latest brainchild and spoken word event and featured the following poets (in order of appearance) Kevin Bateman, Supriya K Dhaliwal, Jasmina Susic, myself, Jessica Traynor, Catherine Ann Cullen, Eilin de Poar and Maeve O’Sullivan.

You can watch the event as it was recorded live on the link below. More details will follow but I have to catch a plane now back to Paris!!

https://t.co/IVxOJIyGIw

You tube link: https://youtu.be/GAXG_vR6C6c

Audio version for this poem available on Soundcloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/a-deer-by-a-dolman-in-dublin

 

GPO, PAST POST, POETRY DAY IRL

/ deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

 

A Poem about the GPO, Dublin’s iconic General Post Office

a site that’s seen more than just letters of love in its time…

for Poetry Day Ireland 27th April 2017

 

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1

Beneath the pillars 
of your past, 
I posted letters 
between your walls 
and wondered 
if they rubbed up against 
the souls of your saviours,
if they met with memories 
that were made and measured, 
bruised and battered,
between your bricks and mortar
before being buried in blood

2

How many letters of love, 
lined in lust and longing, 
have perfumed your pillars
working their way 
through your worthy walls
and haunted halls 
in search of hungry hearts 
to hold them,
to open them,
to hear them.

All Words by Damien B. Donnelly. Photograph borrowed from internet (I will give it back)

FIRST THRUST

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

 

There
in the crook of hope,
like fluff caught
in the navel,
of youth barely tasted,
(I had barely licked air)
of freedom newly found,
(note: first flights often fail)
of fulfillment
before it failed
(before we faded),
I am in a bed
in Belfast
no longer bloody
(the city not yet I)
no longer blown to bits
(the streets not yet my hope)
and we are better
than I believed,
trusting in our thrusts,
truer than we were
and more lasting,
more intact
than reality
left that first kiss
(already gone once it’s given)
of something bright,
of freedom felt
before it was shattered
on my bed;
bloody
and blown to bits,
I, not the city.

We were never
more than momentary
(a training ground
for grown-up toddlers),
a meeting at Bewelys
(when it was creative
and cozy like cuddles
when it’s cold
and still accommodating
after clubs)
when Dublin
was still my day,
was still within interest
(when its size didn’t matter;
isn’t it all relative?)
a courting over coffee
(footsies in the shadow
of a table that wobbled
on the third floor
near the theatre
and therein the warning;
unstable and all an act)
in the afternoon,
in the aftermath
of my outing;
freshly feathered bird
on the first flight
from the nest
from the tit;
the search
for something new
to suck from,
so full on faith,
so blind to the fall
but eager to climb
over dreams,
over desires,
over you in the end,
(or up from under you)
obstacles to rise to,
to arouse me
(did you arose me
or just your attention
to trembling erection?)
obstacles that came
until they were gone
and other conquests
(obstacles become conquests)
took their place
in my head,
in my bed
after I’d cleaned up
what had been left
broken
by our blast.
A bright wave
in the dark enlightenment
of a Dublin night
by the shore
swept off the ring
that wrapped us
(faith falling from finger)
when your wandering ways
and hands and eyes
(that turned like tides)
washed over
my innocence
(my Disney-like devotion)
and drowned
your deviations
and my dedications
to the blind side.
We’d been better
in Belfast
after the conflicts,
in that bed
that night
before our conflict,
but that was just one act,
one thrust
before dublin
demolished
the trust
that was an illusion
revealed
behind the crook
of the curtain
of our pale play
with too trite twists.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/first-thrust

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

/ deuxiemepeau / 14 Comments

 

It might not be a white Christmas here in Paris or in Dublin, where I’m headed tomorrow, but it was once white enough to build a giant Snow Queen in the garden of Effelstown Cottage, the Donnelly homestead,  and to silence all movement in Amsterdam…

Merry Christmas everyone and a very, much needed, Happy New Year.

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A North County Dublin Snow Queenimg_0862

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Snow Covered Canals of Amsterdamimg_0593

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Shades of Blue and White…

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lampdoor

A lamp in a door, of course!

snowbikebridge

snowbiketram

Dutch transport

snowbridgelamp

snowchinaman

snowtreecar

snowycastles

treesnow

effelstowncottage

Effelstown Cottage, Dublin , Ireland.

 

Al Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

PAST POSTS

/ deuxiemepeau / 1 Comment

 

1

Beneath the pillars 
of your past, 
I posted letters 
between your walls 
and wondered 
if they rubbed up against 
the souls of your saviours,
if they met with memories 
that were made and measured 
bruised and battered
between your bricks and mortar
before being buried in blood

2

How many letters of love, 
lined in lust and longing, 
have perfumed your pillars
working their way 
through your worthy walls
and haunted halls 
in search of hungry hearts 
to hold them
to open them
to hear them

All words by Damien B. Donnelly

 

IRELAND, THE EMERALD AND I

/ deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

Reposting this oldie about Ireland for Saint Patrick’s Day

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And again I found myself, of a morning, that morning,
on a winding road, once more, meandering like a stream,
before it opened up to unveil a vast expanse of stillness
where brook and lake entwined, where rugged roads
wandered into wilder woods and the light, that sat upon mossy mountain,
reflected the break of another boorishly boisterous day in a landscape
where Yeats, having left the Mauds of his world to fight the battle
without him, had climbed nightly The Thoor Ballylee to find rest, and so,
that morning, I revelled in what it meant to be connected to these often harsh,
sometimes barren but seldom anything less than breathtaking lands.
 
Immense clouds hanging on the horizon, fertile lands out front,
awash with the 40 shades and a silence, amid so much
awe-inspiring nature, that the Emerald in her name seemed so justified.
 
And yet, as if forever ingrained and known, but for a moment forgotten,
from somewhere deep inside resurfaced the notion that it was not these lands
that I missed but the memory of laughter that blew above these lands
on the breeze that crossed fields of verdant greens, that skirted over grass
waiting to be grazed on and found rest in trees that longed for lovers to kiss beneath.
 
And then, as normal as the nodding of the cap to the passing stranger
along the roadside, I was taken back to those lucidly liquid days shining
from my youth when the patriotic spirit of a nation, so small but spirited,
more laughed with than laughed at, doused itself in shamrocks
and drowned itself merrily in spirits of an altogether other nature,
a time when neighbours knew each other like family
and a new face in town was merely a friend we did not yet know…
 
And there I stood, home again, spun on that same laughing breeze
into the past and I saw before me the Me of today reflected
in my childhood form of yesterday with teddy in one hand
and Tayto’s in the other, smiling amid laughter I had heard
but was far too young to understand in a land that I’ve fled so far from,
swept up and away on other breezes, and yet, however high I fly
or however much I roam, I never seem to feel too far
From that Fair Green Isle called home.

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All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

First 4 photographs in Skerries and Lusk, Co. Dublin, Ireland

Bottom photographs at Ailwee Caves and along the shoreline in Dingle, Ireland 

SECOND CHANCE, A SHORT STORY ANTHOLOGY

/ deuxiemepeau / 1 Comment

 

It’s here. Over the summer months, http://www.originalwriting.ie launched three short story competitions and chose 10 winners from each to create its short story anthology 2015.

On Friday 6th November 2015, in Dublin’s Central Hotel, ‘Second Chance’ gets its rousing Irish launch.

Paris take a breather, Dublin here I come…

Original Writing are an Irish self publishing company, founded in 2006 and based in Dublin. They also run regular competitions to encourage and promote upcoming writers. Check out their website for details on their self publishing packages, resources and an unmissable blog with help, hints and everything a writer needs to know.

This is the book, in a box, printed, published and waiting to be read. Roll on Friday…

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#GetWriting #GetReading

Fool’s Kingdom

/ deuxiemepeau / Leave a comment

I am frequently fool:

Folly of fearful affection,

Fading fast behind a closed door

With key in hand-

My own hand.

Unseen,

Untouched,

Craving to be held,

But afraid to be found,

Figured out,

As failure, freak, fanatic fool.

I am boy grown man,

Growing old, going grey-

Recedingly so-

And all in the blink of my eye.

Am I really

That unrecognized reflection

In the mirror,

Staring back at me-

Questioningly?

Skipping, slipping, sliding,

Fidgeting,

Foolishly falling forward

Into a future-

Though of what?

I’ve been Dublin born,

Bullied and bored;

The bashful boy

Who never understood why the big boys pushed him,

The artistic child

Who painted a world where everyone loved him,

The boy child

Who never saw the streets as fair as the songs all painted,

Who only saw the limits and restrictions of an island-

Isolated.

The growing boy-

Who finally fell distracted by the body of man

And the feel of it’s touch,

Mostly mistaking momentary fumblings

To be romantic ever-afters,

But they were mainly misjudged minutes of madness-

More ‘Always Ending’ than ‘Everlasting’-

Learning curves,

Bathing pools,

Energetic experiments

And sweaty seductions

After too much booze

And mixed with pocketfuls

Of inexperienced,

Overly enthused

Disney-like

Naivety.

I remember laughing the first time he undressed me,

Crying the first time I came,

And settling in when I should have been leaving.

I thought me broken hearted-

But it was not so,

Could not,

Never have been-

You need to know the heart

Before it can break

And this man child had yet to meet

The beat that bleed him.

And so,

It was the first full stop,

Dublin Done.

Moving on…

Amid cobbled streets

And Marais magic

The boy became truly man-

Removed, replaced,

Relocated,

Refreshed- alone,

No longer island bound

No longer thought to be ‘Known’ by the common crowd.

A new kingdom- to find freedom in-

Lay await at my feet

And there I was,

Suddenly,

In the middle of it all

And-

Drowning,

Mistaking myself

to be Ardent Adventurer!

Explorer Extraordinaire!

How I’d convinced myself that

Fly on the wall, watching, dictating, reporting

Was so much more important to an aspiring artist

Than a dived in, soaked up, part of it all, competitor!

And then time, slowly,

Unbeknownst to me,

Drew me out,

Pulled me in,

Lessened my wide-eyed glare,

Cleaned my cumbersome and clumsy character

And left me

Grown,

As we do,

Totally unaware

Not able to pinpoint the very moment,

Or time,

Or place

That it happened-

It was just there-

I could feel it,

I caught it in my own reflection

Within the eyes of other men-

Bigger men,

Older men,

Grown men,

Who now seemed not so different any more,

And in that reflection

I fell surprised,

Shocked

Because nothing had changed in that person that stared back at me

But somehow,

Inexpressibly,

Everything was different.

There have been, of course,

Other lands,

Other men,

Many moments of madness,

Sadness,

Gladness.

Touches and tendernesses.

Lovers I’ve left and

Friends that I’ve lost

But they are, so often,

Like time- all fleeting,

They do not stay for long-

Forever is not for everyone.

But in my heart-

Which is now known

And heard

And occasionally understood-

There is the place for those

Who indeed have proved

Irreplaceable-

The pillars upon which I gaze

And markers toward that life

I wish to lead.

They are crowning

A new King, today

In this foreign City

That somehow,

Over time,

Has found its way to be familiar-

And I think somewhere

Amid it’s watery streets

Lies my future in waiting.

And, as I dress by the mirror,

On April’s last dawning,

I wonder to myself

As I catch that reflection-

Still so familiarly different-

When next will I feel

More King

In me

Than fool.

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