THE THAW

01/11/201816/08/2021 / deuxiemepeau / 12 Comments

Blue is the breath,
blue is the earth,
morning, early,
the sky a clean canvas
of white and the earth; blue,
a bed of frozen blues
born from dawn’s breath,
a blanket of freshly fallen
slow snow, trembling
along the hairs of the land, caught
in the calm before the crunch,
before the footprints
mould into mud
all that is now a myriad of mystery.

There is beauty in blue,
there can be beauty in being broken,
in time being frozen,
in the breath baying.

I twist and tremble
between these sheets
still fresh upon these old shadows,
still crisp over this drying skin.
I twist and tremble
through this season to be unsure,
falling into blue,
into time, time is frozen
along with all that is born in this bed,
a blanket of fallen findings;
some things I thought to be more,
some things I hoped to mean less,
like loss, less loss,
less time, less breath, more blue,
the mystery is already moulding into mud.

Blue is the breath and slow,
soft as the early morning snow
so slow, awaiting nothing more
than the affirmation
of an approaching melt.

All words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

DARK LIGHT, PART 1: FAR FROM

25/10/201816/08/2021 / deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

And slow falls the heaven’s breath,
drawing on those days of dawns;
dewy with that blanket white crispness
below the song of the bluebird
(do you see; beauty can be blue
even when the bird isn’t black)
soft thrills trembling through the forest
as fine folds of frosty fur
find its form in frozen
between branches blithely bending,
l picture violins, their strings
being strung in a honed harmony
to hush the moon
now bitter to be beckoned
back beyond the blue,
(always the blue, always the time falling
on showers of snowflakes
that find their form
in their fluttering flight).
For a moment,
far from the fury,
the morning sighs itself awake,
(I see a baby draw its breath
and consider the corner of a smile
before it crumbles to a cry)
roots stretch and buds break
through the soil
the slow snow is intent on freezing,
for a moment, all is possible
but the snowflakes
that found the light beyond the night
turn to cracked crystals
of inconsistency
as they tip the truth
of who we are in the dark light
of these dull days.
They were golden tears
for but a moment,
spun into perfection,
swirling southward,
before they found us, falling
over an earth too far
from heaven.

All words and collage by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

JOURNEYS, PART 14, THE RUSTLING

03/09/201816/08/2021 / deuxiemepeau / 6 Comments

Rustle rocks,
the night has murmured to the soul;
Peace cannot rest in the shade for long,
it seeks but a sanctuary for a season,
Eden could not flower forever,
there were other fields waiting
to be found as fertile,
other apples begging to be tasted,
other counties where curiosity
wasn’t a closure to the contract.

Behold this wind, this wild thing,
its tendrils tug so on my flesh.

Bright is the breath
as the path waits to be pressed.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

JOURNEYS, PART 14, AT THE RISING SUN

02/09/201816/08/2021 / deuxiemepeau / Leave a comment

Sandy shades of dust speckle the ground and gallant tones of green dot the landscape from which the scent of olives ooze, before mixing with the aromas of musk, distant Morocco and the comical smell of burning tires. At dusk, I was driven by a blind taxi driver, judging by his driving, along a road which seemingly stretched through the sea whilst seagulls dove for food before the final setting of the sun. That morning, I had strolled along golden sands and watched tides sweep over my feet, I saw white robbed men close their eyes and wrap themselves in prayer and peace. I saw the sun rise and pour its rays over the tombs of those who had long since gained eternal rest. A simple life witnessed, with riches extending far beyond the grasp of materialism.

The sun rises over setting souls,
white waves sweep over strange scents,
gulls are savages on all shores.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

JOURNEYS, PART 7; METAMORPHOSIS

26/08/201816/08/2021 / deuxiemepeau / 7 Comments

—

How still it is, silent
beneath the somber shade
of night, beyond the light
already departed. Alone in thoughts
that twist and turn and dig deep
amid the this and that,
the important and the redundant,
the stillness builds, oblivious
to the restlessness beneath my skin,
between my toes, a sense of something
unseen, somewhere a future
already on the move, shaken
into substance, substantially self-sufficient,
while I sit in silence, in stillness, in waiting,
wrapped up cocoon like beneath
the hibernating blanket of this interim,
this condition of considered change.

I will soon slip into a sleep
born of the metamorphosis
of the moment,

aware of who I was,
in the knowledge of who I am
and accepting of what I will,
in time, become.

Tomorrow awaits the memory
of who I was while today exists
only the dream of what will come.
This stillness is as teasing
as the unknown route ahead,
the trail my feet have yet to thread,
to carve out a crater
that smacks of existence
long after I have journeyed on
and found fresher, unexplored lands
I shall, one day, for a time call home.
Somewhere, just out of sight,
on the edge of this stillness a night owl
toots a tale of transition
above the silent slumber of a world
with eyes closed, unconscious
to the weighty wisdom of tomorrow’s light.

The erudite Owl,
once perched in another land,
in another time, on the shoulders of Athena,
witnesses the world through eyes
that see beyond the darkness
of all that has been and has yet to unfold
and carries, in his very presence,
on this very night, in this very stillness,
while all else surrenders to the silence,
a confirmation of the transition felt within me,
sensed around me and promising
to take hold of me as sure as he will
spread his well-worn wings,
find his flight and take to the shadows
before morning finds it’s light

while all through time
a metamorphosis is made of me.

—

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

JOURNEYS, PART 6; DAFFODIL DREAMS

25/08/201816/08/2021 / deuxiemepeau / 10 Comments

I climb clouds
between the night’s blanketed sleep,
a billowing blossom of smoke
that never chokes the mountain moon,
where the world is a warm walk
through a blue breeze
and the only plight
is to find your path
within a forest of daffodils
on a prairie of peace.

On a prairie of peace
within a forest of daffodils,
beyond the billowing blossom of smoke
that never chokes the mountain moon,
I climb clouds
as a blue breeze uncloaks
the confusion of consciousness
and the sky glistens
with a golden glimpse of tomorrow
tipped in a topaz tempered truth.

I climb clouds
to sleep in a dream of daffodils

too distant for daylight to deliver.

Photograph taken in Holland Park, London, in an earlier lifetime

ESCAPE TO THE SOUTH, FRAMING FRANCE

24/08/201816/08/2021 / deuxiemepeau / 5 Comments

A weekend in Marseille, Frioul, Cassis and the hills and beaches of Calanque…

Frioul Archipelago

Marseille seen from the Frioul and the island of If, from The Count of Monte Cristo

Vieux Port, Marseille

Calanque

View from the restaurant in Calanque

Calanque de Sugiton

Backstreet of charm in Cassis

Pastis before brunch

All photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

JOURNEYS, PART 4; LITHE LIGHT

22/08/201822/08/2018 / deuxiemepeau / 4 Comments

The clouds quieted the stars above

as I, on bended knee, bowed to the river

and into its flow, in the growing light,

let my hand slip beneath its movements,

under its motions and waited to watch

as its sway of waters waltzed over,

moved through and flowed onwards,

while never stopping, never straining,

never staying and I saw, in that dawning,

in that simple second, how life flowed

around me, through me, and past me,

all precious moments to be borrowed,

to be begged for and to be bartered

before they will eventually break away,

leaving me more than I was before, less

than I will be tomorrow and certain today

that I will, like this current, one day,

as I weave my way through these wants

and wishes, find the way to my own ocean.

As lithe breath called to morning and

the stars found their cover in the clouds,

I bowed to the river, forever bending,

forever mending, forever finding its form

along the bank and bed, amid the light

that lingers along the route and the darkness

that comes to call for but a while.

—

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

JOURNEYS, PART 3; THE CLIMB

21/08/201816/08/2021 / deuxiemepeau / 4 Comments

For every cracked climb,
unconsidered but compulsory,
that catastrophic clamber
over chaos and confusion,

there also comes the
slide into smoothness;

that paved path,
pure and polished,
an offer of an anchor
before the next convulsion of the course.

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

Photograph taken at the National Park of the Calanque, Marseille

TO COME CURIOUS

03/07/201816/08/2021 / deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

We take slow steps into the sweet water, watch the current
caress the dark rock, the volcanic roar no longer rupturing,
its rage now rocked to slumber by this single shore. I lose
my shirt to time’s tide and this shimmering sand, I lift it up
and feel the weight that washed over it as you turn to face
the vast ocean and wonder what the next wave will bring
upon us. We have crossed currents, trained through towns
and cut across mountains, we have laughed at sadness
and cried over cocktails, we have come so far to wade out
into these waters as locals watch us with questions of how
and why. We have come curious to this country, we creep
along its coast like this tide, rummaging over these rocks,
wondering what happened to the heat it once ran with
when man was more forgiving and the mountain more daunting.
We climb the dormant mount, once maker of molten menace,
to watch the sun swim up from the sea and we count minutes
till the darkness will be disregarded as if time is all that’s needed
to destroy depression, decay, dysphoria. This mountain, once
a monster the sea could not settle and land could not control,
this country, once more than a division of north and south,
of emperors and conquers, Confucians and Catholics, devout
and deserted. We were once more than single souls searching
for the way back. We are tides, coming and going along
these beds we find shelter in, arms wrapped around us
like seaweed we equally fight off and hold down, we are lava,
trailing tunnels through our own thoughts, destroying
what we think to be too much but never quite knowing
how to fill the hollowness that’s left behind. We take steps
down into the open earth, adding sweaters to our short sleeves
and I wonder why it grows colder the closer we get to the core.
Isn’t the inferno on fire any more? Dante will be disappointed.
We look like ants crawling over cobbled rock as we curve
through these corridors created in centuries now cemented
into time and caress these walls and catch our breath
under cathedral ceilings created by no creature but by nature’s
creation. Deeper and deeper still and the silliness is replaced
by a silence, a stillness in this place where the waters drip
from porous rock and we look smaller, less special, not so strong
in this cave carved by once molten rock, lines of luscious lava
that laughed as its lungs opened and its power poured. Later,
back at the beach, the tide again tickles our feet as we stand
upon the rock that once before roared. We are equal parts
creator and equal parts responsible for all that we corrupt.
We have come curious to this country but find ourselves
asking more questions about ourselves than of this coast
that will still be counted long after we have been smashed
upon our own current. We take slower steps through
the sweetness and my heart beats louder, longer, lighter.

At the end of our holiday in South Korea we crossed over onto the Island of Jeju, UNESCO world heritage site and walked down into the Manjanggul lava tubes, underground caves dug out by lava while Trump and Kim had their summit. We waded out into blue waters lined with the remains of volcanic rock as the locals wondered how we’d gotten there and then climbed Seongsan (now dormant) volcano to watch the sun rise at 4.30am. The sun rose at 5.22am although the clouds arrived at 5.10am. This is why I offer a picture I took of the sunset the night before. You can’t have a sunset like this and still expect more, even if you hiked in the darkness.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/to-come-curious