Poetry Ireland

THE DRAGON SLAYER OF DOOLIN, HIKES AND HAIKU

/ deuxiemepeau / 5 Comments

 

The Dragon Slayer in Doolin

Brown cow seeks shelter
Such weight under so much rock
Hush, soft comes the sea

My past is not buried beneath all that rock and weed like I first witnessed. My past has become moss and mould that has made more of these monstrous walls than I first saw. See how the seedlings shoot from cuts and cracks. I have the same spots on my skin, now more worn, but also less sharp, less prickly, less pointed. Direction is something which distracted for too long, too far. Perhaps that is why I keep returning now to the harbour. The light from the lighthouse turns, it is not still, not stagnant. The sea cannot be captured. I cannot be caught. There was weight, but then comes the wave. Weight and wave. Wait, for soon there will be wave. See the brown cow standing.

Where did this come from; the ‘Cliff Ginko’ workshop hike, in Doolin, Sunday Morning, Writers’ weekend, we walked to the coast and back again through our past, we stopped and wrote, walked further on through our present, we stopped and wrote, walked further again into our future, we stopped and wrote and then headed back to the hotel, a cosy snug, some hot tea and we summed it all up which is how I arrived at the above passage and haiku. Below are the free-thought notes taken at the stops along the way…
Into the Past…
Rocks, rocks and famine walls, my nose runs, slow pace, fast wind, the mind rushes to that scene; the beach as a boy, breathless, always breathless and feeling so much less, then, at that time, now too, oh for God’s sake. Sake, stake. I felt trapped, my chest and that stake. I feel I was born out of shape, formless; a pebble, plenty of potential, ripe, but then you came and piled rocks upon potential, gave me your form, your design, heavy, clunky, sharp bits, sticking out and over and into me. I hated the penis, sharp bit sticking out, wilful, uncontrollable, on the outside, everything on the outside, no cover, no care, no armour. And yet all that weight.
Into the Present…
Little bird flies in, speckled, black, specs of white, like the sky, likes the clouds, darkness but light, behind, beyond. We walk further, out closer, wind coming in, wind and then water. Waves of weight, then comes anger, anger, more and then in the chest, panic. Feel the panic, free the panic. Coming out and up for air. Breathe. Feel the power. Power, like a shower. Welcome to Doolin Pier, the sign says. Welcome to the Dragon Slayer, I say, here in Doolin, who knew Jamie Lannister was here. I come to the sea, to wash off the dust like she did, like Joni did, after the city. The water cannot be captured, cannot be caught. No droplet, like she said, all those hours, but never the same water. I cannot be who you want me to be. I see bridges and roads and wires, telegraph wires, all leading and moving and coming and going. And here I am; coming home. I will slay dragons for you, remember, how I told you and you and you and you and you. Fuck, how I told you and you and you buried me in so much armour. I came to the sea for the salt to rust me, to break me free. We pass a house of loose old rock, rumbling, crumbling. How much will be left of who I am when I finally break free? See me, See Me! Don’t forget me when I take to the field to fight those dragons for you. I see you making already for the sink, to bash those dishes. Out of sight, out of mind. And I said it all because I wanted someone to slay a dragon for me, that day, by the beach, one day, some day. And now it is up to me, Me. I will be the sea and the Slayer. I cross oceans of my own dreams and desires and I will find my own shore. I will not be (cannot make out last hand written word as hand was frozen from the crisp morning air).
Into the future…
I come up and out and catch the light coming through the clouds. I’ve cut through, Joni, your clouds and those illusions. I run fingers of frozen flesh along these walls, settled now as my form frees itself. I don’t have to break it down, only chip away at it in places, smooth till it settles. I have rubbed my hands and hopes along these walls as this dragon slayer, blue as a tattoo, illusions and clouds, come together. Brown cow seeks shelter in the cut-out of the rock. See how much he hears the sea sigh of life.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

For Kathy

70210D53-9CA5-4A3F-8448-86C9E44EC211

WHEN IMAGINATION COMES BACK HOME

/ deuxiemepeau / 4 Comments

 

‘An Irishman’s heart is nothing but his imagination’
George Bernard Shaw

I came back, looking to find the pieces I’d left behind,
in my parting, having since shed so much of the things
once thought treasures along the trail. I came back,
wondrous for the parts as yet unopened, unlike the heart
I never knew how to close, or the route I never knew
how to resist. Even in that taxi, that took me away,
I held your hand and thought of another, since departed,
and wondered whose next I would hold. Even my thoughts
had been off and running, always eager for something else,
the something shiny, the scent of something in flight.

I never liked to nest too long in the shadow of the same tree.

I came back to recall the beginning, to remember all
the dreams I had yet to deliver and there, upon a wall
where I watched a robin consider the rouge of his chest,
a wall I thought I’d never get back over, I saw your words
and realised all that I am and will be is because of how
faithful this heart has been to the concept of imagination.

And I turned and took to the task with red chest ready to roar.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B Donnelly

I’m off now to attend the first day of the Doolin Writers’ Weekend here in Doolin, Co. Clare on the west coast of Ireland. 

I CLIMB VOLCANOES

/ deuxiemepeau / 6 Comments

 

I saw a heart of metal encase a heart since stilled
on a pillow of white purity, precious protected
in a glass case, without a key and I wondered
how far people would go to protect themselves?

I have never known how to cut glass carefully
nor cared to consider a case for this organ
which I offer up without consideration itself.

I’ve never known how to restrain the beats
that slip out from under this skin and there are
times where I can barely catch my own breath.

I do not own the rhyme nor rule any ripple
that rises up after the fates have been flung.

I climb over volcanoes instead of into cases
and tremble above shores too pure to sit upon.

I have not come to lay love lightly upon a pillow.

I leap off burning cliffs with even sharper edges
in the call of amour, not the encasement of armour.

I have been made merrily of these immeasurable
mistakes with an abhorrence to metallic restraints.

 

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph from Christ Church Cathedral, Dublin, of the encasement of the heart of Lorcán Ua Tuathail (1128 / 1180) who became Saint Laurence O’Toole, Patron Saint of Dublin.

UP IN DUBLIN, KILMAINHAM GAOL

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‘If our deed has not been sufficient to win freedom, then our children will win it by a better deed.’

Patrick H. Pearse, President of the Provisional Government of Irish Republic, Kilmainham Gaol, May 2nd 1916, later executed at 3.30am, 3rd May, by the gunshots of 12 soldiers. He was 36 years old. He left notes of goodbye for his family including his mother and brother Willie who was a teacher at St. Enda’s college which Patrick had established as a school to teach boys not only the English language but also their own Irish language. Patrick (or Padraic in Irish) had no idea that his brother was to be placed in the cell next to his own in Kilmainham to be be executed the following day.

 

Kilmainham Goal, opened in 1796 in Dublin, was to be the first reform prison in the Ireland, but later, during the famine it became overcrowded with dreadful conditions as people sought to be arrested so they could have a roof over their heads and the possibility of one meal a day. It later detained many of the leaders of the rebellions during the Irish fight for independence, most significantly after the Easter Rising of 1916 when 14 of its leaders were shot at dawn including James Connelly, Joseph Plunkett and Patrick Pearse. It closed its doors in 1924. It previously imprisoned Eamon DeValera, the 3rd president of the Republic of Ireland, who later came back to reopen the building as a museum.

One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve shots rang out
at dawn
with
the hope
a rising
would be done.

Twelve shots rang out
but all they could spill
was blood
not spirit.

 

Damien B. Donnelly

Kids
scrape their names
into the concrete
thinking
that’s what makes
legends

meanwhile

the silence screams
with the sound
of your smashed soul
within the stillness
of these cells

‘…I would have brought you royal gifts, and I have brought you
Sorrow and tears: and yet, it may be
That I have brought you something else besides-
The memory of my deed and my name
A splendid thing which will not pass away
When men speak of me, in praise and in dispraise,
You will not heed, but treasure your own memory
Of your first son.’

 

A poem by P. H. Pearse entitled To My Mother, written just before he was executed.

Did she hold thereafter,
that Mother gifted of sorrows,
that splendid thing to her heart
as the rifles ripped the remains
of both her sons
across the helpless walls.

 

Damien B. Donnelly.

Joseph Mary Plunkett was married to Grace Gifford (a protestant who’d converted to catholicism) on the night of 3rd May, 1916 in the prison chapel surrounded by soldiers in a brief ceremony where they only spoke their vows. In the early hours of the following morning Grace was brought to her new husband’s cell. They were given 10 minutes to say their goodbyes. It is said they stood together in silence. Joseph was executed at dawn at the age of 28, less than 9 hours after being married.

The cell of Eamon De Valera, 3rd President of the Republic of Ireland

The list of those executed after the Easter Rising 1916

By the morning of May 12th 1916, James Connelly had already been shot twice while trying to hold the GPO (Dublin’s General Post Office and the main scene of the rising from Easter Monday up to their surrender the following Saturday 29th April) and was already dying from those wounds. He could not stand or walk and so was carried into the yard on a stretcher and had to be secured to a chair so the 12 soldiers could execute him.

Sometimes
the nearest light
feels the furthest from reach.

 

Damien B. Donnelly

Entering
Into the shadow
Of a cold cell
There is only one choice
Trust in the coming light
Or be blown out.

 

Damien B. Donnelly

 

All photographs by Damien B Donnelly

Words by me unless otherwise stated.

BASKETS OF BLASPHEMY

/ deuxiemepeau / 21 Comments

 

The always inspiring Liz at Exploring Colour

https://exploringcolour.wordpress.com/

introduced me this week to this beautiful drawing by Jean Mackay of Drawn In,

https://jeanmackayart.com/

a sketch revolving around the various stages in the basket making process. Liz hinted there could be tales uncovered within the shadow and light of the sketch and, after an initial look this week qnd finding a certain nostalgia mixed in amid the delicate pencil strokes, this is the story that unfolded for me…

 

Before they break the bread they make the baskets,

hands twisting like roots turning, finding the source

beneath the soil; finding the form between the fingers

fixing, wondering if knots can hold, if what is born

can bind and hoping that what they make might mend.

__

And she saw the fine filigree of her grandmother wave

from within the weave, remembered how it felt to be

entwined into a hold that held so much heart, the smell

of those hands now her smell, her scent, her hands

finding form as the circle turned into something greater,

broader; wider, darker, not all twists can be unturned,

wicker bends and leans in as if to whisper and falls away

and under and she wondered how it might find its way

back as the other laughed, the giggling girls with their long

skirts over skin already stained, looking for ways to twist

out of their own tales, platted into tatters too soon.

__

Maura gave birth to a Saint Bridgits Cross that day,

wove her worries into a fallen belief, soaking her swollen

aches with the reeds in the water that would never warm.

Brenda bore her basket like a baby, fragile folds

and tucks and wrapped the rim carefully like covering

a blanket neath the chin of a child she would never forget.

__

Before they broke the bread they made the baskets

the babies would be placed in, each reed drowned

in a river that ran from their fears, ties never attached,

hope never to be held while behind them, resplendent

after lashings and splicings, the black winged women

cawed over the faithful feathers they wore as robes

as their beaded hands prayed for the sinners now

servants for the so-called stains of their skin.

__

And she watched, as she weaved wicker through

the wicked world, in a convent grown cold,

in a kitchen to clean, those witnesses of judgement,

the untouched sisters of seeming servitude, religious

reeds never bent by other hands, folding only

to an unseen force, foreign to the feeling of other flesh,

twisting their rosary around their faultless fingers

as she turned the reeds around the coming regret

of being born and borne away to never come back.

__

Before they broke the bread they made the baskets,

before they broke their hearts, they buried all hope in their broken waters.

 

Audio version available on Soundcloud;

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/baskets-of-blasphemy

 

 

All words by Damien B. Donnelly

Artword by Jean Mackay of Drawn In, https://jeanmackayart.com/

Encouragement by Liz at Exploring Colour

https://exploringcolour.wordpress.com

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

 

SALMON DANCERS, day 3 of A Month with Yeats

/ deuxiemepeau / 13 Comments

 

Jane Dougherty’s 3rd poetry challenge based on a quote from WB Yeats is as follows: “With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,”—W.B. Yeats. Follow Jane and her inspiring poetry at her blog, link below, where you can also see a photograph from Paul Militaru which influenced today’s poem: https://janedougherty.wordpress.com

My poem today is entitled SALMON DANCERS

 

And so swim the salmon, against

the rising stream, foam flushing

against fins as falcons fly overhead

in the fight for freedom, destiny

is not a dance that can long

be distracted, shiny specks of silver

dancing, darting, borne to beat back,

to wage against the rushing waters

as they make their way west. And so

swim the salmon, along the corroded

current of Connacht, that Atlantic

sojourn, that shore still swaying

in the shadow of those ancient songs

when souls set off in search of security

overseas, burdened boats battened

down with the beaten and the broken,

culled like cattle in the rain, boats

with bodhrans and fiddlers, singing

and dying through their dreams

of a new world, already mourning

the old lands, the homelands

they’d been swept from, kept from.

And so swim the salmon

as the storms rage, as they battle

onwards, salmon dancers, skating

on the waters, leaving trickles like stones

once tossed by hands now lost, tracks

to follow for others who’ll follow,

as others have followed, as others

who’ve fallen, their faces now faded.

And so swim the shining salmon,

off into the world with the sound

of home in every stroke.

 

All words by Damien B. Donnelly

Picture from the internet of the Salmon of Knowledge.

BIRTH, SO STILL. Day 1 of A month with Yeats

/ deuxiemepeau / 16 Comments

 

Jane Dougherty is not doing NaNoWriMo, let’s be clear about that. But she is busy doing something else equally inspiring- spending a month in the company of W.B. Yeats and asking us to join her- each day this month Jane will pick a line from a Yeats poem and write a new poem inspired by it and wants us to join in too! Below is the link, not only to this adventure but also to her wealth of poetry and short stories and links to her own novels- there are even wormholes! https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/2017/11/01/november-yeats-challenge-day-one/

Today’s quote is: “they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies, with heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold:” —W. B. Yeats

My poem is entitled: Birth, so still

 

And the babies were born, broken,

while the seasons still turned, maiden

mothers moved from baring to being left

barren as cowering cloaks cut through

cords, bitter brides in black, climbing

on their crosses, splitting the sin

from the so-called sinner, discarding

the truth with the afterbirth, no grace

for the births so still, no remorse

for the innocence expunged, the girl

grown woman too soon. ‘Fly north

little ones,’ the mourning whispered,

‘take comfort in the bright star,

the North Star, freedom lies beyond

the blackened wings these withered

women wear, they have not lost

to love, they have not shivered

in the absence of that first cry.

The eagle is on the rise in the night

sky and on his feathers you will soar.’

 

All words by Damien B. Donnelly

Picture from the Net.

Audi version available on Soundcloud…

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/birth-so-still

CEAD MILE FAILTE 

/ deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

Country roads wind where shadows linger in the light,
where whispers have withered like leaves out of season,
where the green grows in grandeur over this ancient land,
often fought for, never forgotten, where former footprints
entwine around the rolling hills and half fallen walls
of wishes that once held lovers, that once courted kisses
by knotted trees where dreams took root, when getting away
from the grass long grown was the latest calling
after Ireland’s rugged rising and falling, a nation whose
conservation of caustic comedy is more ingrained
than the moss that bursts through the cobbled stones
of home. Country roads wind as cars chase onwards
like time ticks behind us and we wonder how far we can go,
frightened we may never make it back, but we are made
of movement; seeds sewn and struggling to be seen
centre stage, mid field, along the midway as I pass
a clutter of cattle slowed by a stretch of sun as bleak days
blow over, are brushed back from the smothered south,
the light now returning after Ophelia’s brief calling;
the maiden no longer ‘sweet for the sweet’ but distress
was still caught in her caress. Country roads wander now,
ever onwards, through these humble hills and varied valleys,
like the trenches time tracks on our skin; growing up,
going out, getting old, these tosses and tumbles like life,
like this light, like the path we pave, sometimes on starved soil,
sometimes over fields of fortune, always the shadow
cast on the current of the light, always the twist and turn;
but the brook bends to bare the bother, always the steady stream;
the tear to wash across the laughter, always the leaf
at the will of the wind; the question of where I am going,
always the path we’ve already plodded; the memory
of where we have been. Country roads wind around
a hundred million echoes of a hundred thousand dreams
in the land of a hundred thousand welcomes.




All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly 

All photographs taken this weekend in Lusk, Country Dublin, Ireland

CEAD MILE FAILTE is the Irish greeting meaning a hundred thousand welcomes in Gaelic.