PAST POSTS

06/04/201625/01/2018 / deuxiemepeau / 1 Comment

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

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

17/03/2016 / deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

Reposting this oldie about Ireland for Saint Patrick’s Day

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.

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

OH COUNTRY, MY COUNTRY

24/01/2016 / deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

Oh country, my country,

once born in your troubled times
and raised by the banks where your Liffey lies,
I followed the paths of generations moved on
to see what they’d built, to see where they’d gone,
but returned to a home now seriously lacking
a nation of consumers complaining and attacking.
Where are your parishioners, the pride of your isle,
your Emerald’s glory once renowned for its smile?

Oh country, dear country,

now bigger than ever in girth if not majesty,
in greed if not glory, in makeup if not unity.
What has become of those simple smiles,
captured in bar songs of other times?
Is summer gone, have the flowers died
did Danny not return to his father’s side?
A nation once raised on songs and stories,
of people poor but proud of their glories.
Are you better beings in designer labels,
Gucci in hand and louboutin’s under tables?
Maleficent muttons playing innocent lambs
slaughtering histories with blood stained palms.

Oh country, once my country,

there’s no truth to your hunger or depth to your drunkenness,
no moral in your manners or reason for your forgetfulness.
Who’ll be your heroes in the years still to come,
who’ll hear your cries and who’ll beat your drum?
Collins was martyred and there’s no more de Valera
the last of your greats were the end of an era,
now it’s fools fickle to the latest fashion fads
tarted-up teenagers and under aged dads.

Oh country, fallen country,

once a force of marching freedom
while looking to other lands for asylum,
now turned and twisted into narrow opinions
while others seek help and die in their millions.
How has racism risen so loud
in a place once paraded as peaceful and proud,
where its people filled ships that sailed on the seas
in the hope that other lands would hear their pleas,
can you rise again from your Holy Ground
adding names to the list of your heroes renowned?

Oh country, lost country,

where Mary’s cries still ring out to the sea
for Michael who told her nothing matter’s when you’re free,
have you washed down too much of your own importance
and forgotten the fight for your own independence?
Can it be that the tiger, in departing, took your best;
your heart and your soul and just spat out the rest.

Oh country, what country,

how can I find my way back to before
when all I once loved has slipped from your shore?

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken at across the fields at sunset in Lusk, Co. Dublin , Ireland

SECOND CHANCE, A SHORT STORY ANTHOLOGY

04/11/201525/01/2018 / 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…

#GetWriting #GetReading

IRELAND, THE EMERALD AND I

07/05/201503/11/2015 / deuxiemepeau / Leave a comment

Reposting for #PoetryDayIRL

Remembering home from afar…

And so 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,
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 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.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

SHADOW AND LIGHT

24/11/201404/11/2015 / deuxiemepeau / Leave a comment

At 22,
I knew as much of myself
As the exotic world
I’d just found
With streets willing me
To walk them
Witness them
And be wooed by them.
My twenties
Had typically emerged
As a decade to be a no one;
An empty slate to be carved upon
Before my thirties would find me
And shout me with substance.

I’d lost parents
Before knowing them; given up
In a sacrifice of selflessness
Almost incomprehensible
And found
In the arms of another mother
A love that would prove
Incontestable.

I searched,
During infantile years,
Amid childish ego
And innocence,
For connections
To those around me;
The mother
Loved so unequivocally
And the father
Aged in aggression,
With a gap too great to bridge
And so I turned to walk
Shadowy miles of roads in my head,
Clumsily cramming teenage years
With classically confusing
Childish dribble,
Trying to sound like a grown-up
In size 6 shoes,
Feeling different,
Unknown,
And, more often than not,
Undiscovered.

Finally,
I braved knocks on dark doors-
Frequented bars in back lanes
And alley ways,
Away from the eyes of the pious
Whose ignorance
Bullied the boys
With different desires.
I kissed
My first boy
At 18
Behind a sofa
As excited as a child
On Christmas morning,
Finding courage
Behind shades and acceptance
In a community I had become
No longer
Soul member of.

Cuddling and kissing progressed,
Over time, to sweaty,
Fumbling, amateur athletics
Behind the lights
Replacing shame and catholic guilt
With newfound feelings of freedom
As I began
To notch my way
Onto bedposts
Of various conquests.

Between courtings
I often cried
For lovers in whose arms
I should never have laid
And wondered why I ran
From others in whose embrace
I should have stayed,
All but memories
Patterned into the tissue
Of my sleeve-worn,
Still learning, heart,
Cherished moments
That wished to be relived
Along with others
That longed for time to fade.

I had assumed these
To be bruises
As I fell upon these new
Foreign streets
But have recognised them since
To be no more than lifelines,
Imprints, echoes merely of
Shadow and light.

They were all
Important diversions
Along the road,
Pivotal points
Goading me
Into this very direction.
Some of them
Fell away by your banks
And others settled in,
Ingrained themselves like streets
That mapped themselves
Out in front of me
And gradually,
Over time,
Carved their way
Indelibly
Inside of me.