All photographs by Damien B Donnelly
Metro
BOOKENDS; STILL ME ON THE METRO
It was this morning and yesterday, all at once,
a smell, a scent on the metro, in my nostrils,
a decent into memory, a reverie playing, replaying
while the Counting Crows played Round Here.
We sang our own song, once, but time, like the metro,
took us into different directions, with obligations
steered to other distractions; men and marriage,
movements and meanders, an Irish song we had sung,
you once sung, while I listened and then I left
for a while, while you stayed on, stayed on track.
But I came back and you were still there, still here,
Round Here, as the Crows sang, are still singing,
those Counting Crows; their words still ringing
in my ears, today, on the metro, with that scent
that opened a tunnel in time between yesterday
when we were young and today; wiser and wider.
All this motion, this morning, as my mind rushed
and passengers crushed onto carriages commuting,
lines crossing, junctions joining as I went to work
remembering who we were, I wore waistcoats even then
and you a brown coat that caressed your concerns.
I went to work, this morning, while traveling onwards,
along the same rails, in the same direction as before
but different too, some things old and some things new,
still me on the metro, still me and still, there’s you.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly
Mary (the one on the brown coat) and I met at the Irish College my first time around in Paris and then I left for London while she stayed round here till I returned and we sang again, together, poetry this time, while finding our place.
CITE
A city
in shadow,
a choice;
to stay
or leave,
to be the inquisitor
or the commuter,
to be constant
in the light
or to comprehend
the darkness, far from it,
to break down the barrier
between all there is to see
and all there is left of us to fear.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
MILES OF AISLES
DAY 27; NATIONAL POETRY WRITING MONTH #NaPoWriMo
There’s a lady with a leek,
on the metro, next to me,
a vegetable, vegetating
while she’s reading a book,
and that leek, next to me,
moving through the miles,
like vegetables, on shopping aisles,
vegetating, waiting be cut,
to be cooked, killing time;
twisting, stopping, starting.
There’s a leek, on the lap
of the lady next to me
with the book that holds
no answers in the turned pages
as we move on the metro,
this morning, leek playing dead
so she won’t cut of its head
at home, later on, not here
on the metro, not here
with a knife (that wouldn’t be right)
not a lady with a knife
on the metro moving
cause there are checks now,
at the stations, you know,
so the homeless now
can have a job, don’t you know?
Funny things when you travel
on the metro, when you think
on the metro, next to ladies
with leeks, scouring cook books
for something to eat, something
to get us out of this state,
on metros moving through aisles
and dodging the missiles
that are coming increasingly now
more than just once in a while!
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
.
TRACKS OF TEARS
Day 15; National Poetry Writing Month 30 Days/30 Poems #NaPoWriMo
There’s a girl
this morning
on the metro,
unaware of the crowds,
unaware that I’m late.
There’s a girl
on the metro
packed with tears,
with tears in her eyes
and no place for more lies.
There’s a girl
on the metro
in the morning,
moving through motions,
through stations of grieving
and tunnels of tears.
Her breath is broken
like she’s been running
from something,
like this train
that we’re on
that keeps on breaking
and she’s breaking
this morning,
this girl
on the metro,
with tears
and tunnels
and stops
with no answers.
This girl
on the metro,
unaware that I’m late,
this girl who’s missing
something on the metro,
who’ll miss that someone
who’s making her cry,
who’ll miss that someone
when the lines divide
and leaves her
in tracks of tears.
All Words and Photographs By Damien B. Donnelly
Audio version available on SoundCloud:
STILL MOVING…
Moving, still moving on metros, more metros, more sturdy, more stable, more directive, less suggestive, people, more people, less strangers, more familiar on metros still moving through motions of settling, the notions of belonging to lives above these lines, above these metros still moving like my life that’s still changing, new lands, new lines, same lines, different names, sometimes sturdy and stable, more times suggested than directed, catching connections in the passing, holding hands, holding tight, losing grip, letting go of these lines of our life that we mark into memory like the tracks under ground where we scuttle and scurry on metros, still moving…
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Audio available on Soundcloud:
https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/still-moving
STILL MOVING ON METROS
Moments on the metro
still moving
still cruising
still choosing
still cosy with commuters
who don’t communicate,
why does commuter
look like communication
when no commuter
communicates?
Moments on the metro
still moving, still stopping
still breaking, still taking chances
still stealing glances
penning poems
nodding into naps
bags loaded into laps.
Moments on the metro still
madams with makeup
making faces
like painting Picasso’s
checking mirrors
to see if the eyes line up,
lines, lines of metros, moving
moving down the carriage
of non communicative commuters
cool, classy, kookie, crazy,
the man behind who smells
of starvation and stale streets,
buskers belting out bad notes
and getting bad looks
instead of crisp notes,
the red hat with the short skirt,
the tall ones, the tired, the tourists
plotting their positions on plans
too small to make sense of
too much to capture,
Moments still moving on metros
trailing tracks through tunnels
on the underground
under the ground
under the cars and the bikes
and the feet walking and taxis swerving
and cursing at bikes and pedestrians crossing
the wrong way, the wrong side
as rain falls and puddles
splashing into gutters
as water trickles down
from daylight into darkness
onto tunnels where it finds us
moving still, on metros.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
MINUTES MOVING
There are but minutes now,
minutes in motion on metros,
minutes moving in on me,
on my identity
on my mark, on my leaning,
on my meaning,
meaning I am moveable
like a feast, as he said,
A Moveable Feast,
meaning I am manageable
malleable,
maybe unremarkable, mistakable.
There are but minutes now,
minutes moving in
on my metamorphosis,
on my undoing,
on my unbecoming,
is it unbecoming?
on my being misunderstood,
misinterpreted, misrepresented,
missing.
I am famished,
the feast has moved, on
mindless to the matters
that manipulate me
mould me
remodel me.
Minutes, there are but minutes
multiplying on metros moving,
on me, in motion
minutes making minutes minus minutes.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photograph taken in the Arts et Métiers Metro Station, Paris, France.
PARIS IN PICTURES
Sunday stroll to Musée du Quai Branly…
Yellow Cars
Musée du quai Branly
The river, floor installation 
African masks 
Japanese masks 
Carnival costumes, Chili 
The Gardens of the museum in bloom
Neighbours peeking over
My favourite building on Avenue Rapp
Salamander door handles, of course
Paris in Blue
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Photographs taken in the 7th arrondissement of Paris.
Most Paris museums are free to the public on the 1st Sunday of every month
ME ON THE METRO
It was this morning and yesterday again,
a smell, a scent, on the metro, in my nostrils,
a decent into the memory, a revery playing, replaying
while the crows counted Round Here, they sang,
this year and that other year, all at once,
we sang our own song, once, once, once
but time, like the metro, took us off and on
into different directions, obligated to other distractions,
men and marriage, movements and meanders,
an Irish song we sang, you sang, I listened
and then I left while you stayed on,
stayed on track in that other year
but I came back and you were still there
still here, Round Here, as the crows sang,
are still singing, those counting crows
their words still ringing
in my ears, today, on the metro,
with that scent, that odorous accent
that opened a gap in time between yesterday,
when we were young, and today,
grown worldly and wider,
this morning as my mind rushed
and passengers crushed onto carriages
commuting, lines crossing, junctions joining
as I went to work remembering who we were,
I wore waistcoats even then and you a brown coat
that caressed your curves and concerns,
I went to work while traveling onwards,
along the same rails,
in the same direction
as before but different too
some things old
and some things new,
still me on the metro,
still me and there’s you.
All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
Damien B. Donnelly 