Tides roll in, roll out,
waves recall not where they’ve been
but to where they’re bound.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
moving on
BOOKENDS; THESE ARE NOT MY SHADOWS
You cannot go back, to return does not mean
to rerun, I recognise these streets, I can recall
a certain laugh, a twisted lie, an open door,
but my footprints have changed. I cannot find
the same sunflower I drew when I was younger
than this youth I now cling to and so many
of those old doors have twisted and the lies
opened out to be nothing more than lessons.
I cannot go back, the streets now wear shadows
that never fell from this form I have now become.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly
This month is about looking back in order to move on, one last nod to Paris before I part.
BOOKENDS; BETWEEN THE LIGHT AND THE LEGACY
Paris,
in between the
light and the legacy,
there is a silence waiting
to be heard.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly
This month is about looking at the shadow and light of Paris and the part I played in it, or the parts she played within me.
BOOKENDS; EVOLUTION 12, SOME PEOPLE THAT WE USED TO BE
We sit now and sip cocktails, the waiter pulls out
your chair and hands me the menu after calling you
madame. I strain now to hear your voice; softer,
gentler, feminine finding freedom. I catch you
checking your lipstick in the mirror, pulling a curl
back into place above those blushed cheekbones
still a little swollen, a normal evening in August,
in Paris, sipping gins and rums and telling tales
before swapping tables over Korean cooking
that give us a brief taste of who we used to be.
We sit here, over cocktails; the man and the madame,
looking like a couple in the reflection of a tainted
mirror and I wonder can anyone tell, as you smooth
out your skirt, that you used to be my boyfriend.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly.
This is my final full month living in Paris and it is about looking back to see who I was and giving a moment to recognise all that has evolved and some of the breath that has returned.
BOOKENDS; WHEN THE BREATH COMES AFTER THE BREAK
The lilt of the lavender that lingered for days,
long after, by the leaning, before the louvre,
the sweet consolation of candy floss cologne
that stayed on the pillow, after you had parted.
It is sometimes that simple; a scent to sail you back to me
as if I never left the garden,
as if I never left the comfort of your caress
though when it was there I could barely catch a breath.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly.
This month is looking back at the scent that will stay with me before I leave Paris. The courtyard of the Louvre was filled with a lavender covered tent for a Dior Fashion show during the Paris fashion week a few years ago.
BOOKENDS; WHERE WE CAN GO WHEN WE BECOME MASTERS OF WHO WE ARE
Some scenes we are stuck with like that hand
in that taxi as we left the city I hadn’t said goodbye to.
Whose hand did you think you were holding,
didn’t you know what you’d found hadn’t yet been formed?
Some scents are forever tied to necks where we’ve left traces
of our lips, like you said, yesterday, when I found you
crossing over after so long on the other side
and the first thing you mentioned was my scent, still that scent.
Some places latch on like limbs and I wonder if you will twitch,
still, when I slip you from my spotlight as another taxi
carries me off without a single person to goad my direction.
Some things stay the same and other things we only learn
to master when we find out the right time to walk away.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly.
I first left Paris for London at 24, without a thought as to all I was leaving behind or whether or not I had found who I was. I held someone’s hand who knew who they were while I still had no real idea of myself. Falling in love is sometimes like falling off your own route and it takes time to find your feet afterwards. I will never not fall again, but at least I now know that there is learning in the rising.
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.
BOOKENDS; A STILL LIFE OF SENTIMENTAL ON A WALL
Memory is a shot of stillness sealed behind a lens
that looks for what cannot be seen until it’s been frozen
by the frame.
Some see this as a season of rust and ruin and running
while I see a freedom in this fall and in every breeze
another breath to breathe brave into this body.
I will hang you on other walls, in other seasons
and you will hear me sing other songs to other suitors.
It doesn’t mean we never had our summer,
only that our spring was too short to be anything other
than sentimental.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly.
This month is about looking back so as to move on. A goodbye to Paris.
BOOKENDS; YOU MUST FINISH WRITING THE STORY BEFORE YOU CAN PUT A COVER ON THE BOOK
So many sunsets.
I kissed you goodbye but forever never followed,
I thought us broken but we were just bookends
looking for a final story to stack between the regard
and the lack of regret.
I kissed you again, later, after leaving, after returning
but before going, again, and the water stopped.
I caught our reflection for a moment, in all that stillness,
in all we had held of each other but then I blinked
or you rippled
and, all at once, we were done.
All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly.
This month is about reflections. I moved to Paris, the first time, when I was 22 and stayed for 2 years and then circled back around to this city of shadow and light again at 40. This year will be the final chapter as I pack up the boxes and consider Ireland as home again after 23 years. Who knows if there will be another story to tell of us one day…
BOOKENDS, STARTS TODAY AT 5PM GMT
Coming today and everyday at 5pm
for the next 30 days…
BOOKENDS
A GOODYBE TO PARIS
before returning to Ireland after 23 years away
A month of moments and memories, passion and partings
poetry and photography
WordlessWednesdays and StreetScenesonSaturdays
By Damien B. Donnelly
Damien B. Donnelly 