Poetry Ireland

I CAME TO THE CITY, PART 15; TURBULENT SACRIFICE

/ deuxiemepeau / 6 Comments

 

Mama was an unmarried mother
at the end of the summer of 75
as Joni hissed of the snakes
in the gardens of complacency
where ignorance was still very much alive.

Mama was only a girl in the growing
and possibly no more than just 18
when she bent down and placed
a kiss on my cheek and whispered
goodbye to her own little green.

Mama is someone who I’ve never met
aside from the dream I once had
of her life in a kingdom that ruled
you could not mother a child unless
at first you were a legitimate wife.

Mama was an unmarried girl one winter
in the arms of a man barely stretched
from a boy, her trust in the throws
that left little to believe in and a pain
that pulled on the strings of goodbye.

Mama was once an unmarried mother
and bursting with thoughts her shape
couldn’t hide, but helpless and hopeless
were not part of her form and so she did
what she could when you can’t be the bride.

Mama was a childless woman
when winter that year came cold with its calling,

and the tears started breaking

and the leaves began falling

like the water that had broken,
like the hold that had not held,
like the hope that was drowned,
and the hand that was expelled…

too short, too quick, too hard
too much to let go for good

and the snakes started hissing on the lawns.

Mamma was the unmarried mother
who gave me the greatest gift
that anyone could, of growing up
knowing that what she had done
was to give me up for a greater good.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

 

COLOUR ON CURT CORNERS, PART 8; HUES OF WHO WE ARE

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Blue boy
harbouring at hints
from other hues;
breathless to be breezy,
tu sais? A longing
to lay with lavender,
on a lawn of iris
and amethyst,
to be lyrical with lilac
in its supple shade,
to whisper over walls
like blankets over bodies,
like worry over waves,
ready to be ruby
in red,
ripe and raw
like the apple
in the orchard;
teasing temptations,
like willing wine
on the tip of the tongue
flowing like blood
through the body,
glad to go towards green,
to the shamrock and the sage,
to be mellow in the moss
and jovial in the juniper,
to gain again on the grounding
that was my fertile founding,
bounding back to the beginning,
(we can never go back to before- really?)
to venture back to the verdant valleys,
face to face with the unearthing
of all that came after
in cut and colour of that solid soil
from the cedar to the ochre
(are my eyes hazel
because you are their home?)
returning to the roots
of my becoming,
see them still turning
in the bright bog,
Eire and her energy,
and the emerald smile
that still shines on me
so far from that distant isle.
The green light, that orgastic future,
(he called it), we beat on
but are bound back
to where we began.
.
Blue boy
with green eyes, (hidden in hazel)
white skin
and the orange;
(my diversion with the Dutch?).
Now I am red
and white and blue,
blue again, you see;
you can always go back to before!

Blue boy
harbouring at hints
from other hues.

All words by Damien B. Donnelly. Picture taken in Ireland in 2003.

Audio version available on Soundcloud:

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/colour-on-curt-corners-part-8-hues-of-who-we-are

 

TALES ALONG THE STREETS OF A TIME NOW DEPARTED

/ deuxiemepeau / 8 Comments

 

Sitting by gas fires having gas craic where once
there were open fires, tended fires, where once
the ceilings rose higher and the walls seemed
wider as if now weighed down with habits
and history, tales burn bright like turf
taking flight, blazing through time, a string
of stories flickering fine in the evening’s amber
light of memory, moments made and measured
in simpler ways, in simpler days, in a sleepy town,
a country town were family folded in between fields
to farm and food to find, stories starting with;
‘Mammy warned us, if Mammy found out, Mammy
would kill us, Mammy, give him a clout!’ Reach out,
listener; catch the smoke about to smother the light
from what happened long ago on streets and faces
that time has now outgrown. See them then,
younger and lighter and giddy on laughter
(no laughter at that table, said Nana) your uncle
grabbed a cake once when they weren’t looking,
when they were no taller than an oven, shared it
with brother and off ran, the boys, shaking, see them
shaking the streets with childhood (before they knew
it would outrun them) ‘Don’t look back, don’t tell
the mammy, let’s savour the flavour and not the smack!’

See the girls now women, now ladies (so they say)
hiding posh frocks in thorny bushes, changing down
lanes out of sight from mothers and then in shorter skirts
they stick thumbs out to crowded cars who’ll ferry
fairer girls to band-hall dances, the brothers hiding
in ditches till cars stop for pretty legs but find petty boys
wedging security between boys with cars and the girls
they’d stopped for. Country cottages filling up fast,
priests teaching parishioners never to abstain,
never to complain, though never explained how
to turn water into wine to stop the baby’s whines
and every young mother forgets what it was
not to be pregnant, not to be planning, not to be pushing,
pushing the older kids into corner beds, kitchen beds,
and beds under beds. See them in this house, in a time
before this house was a modern home, when water
was outside and the buckets carried inside to the bedside
at night time for midnight toilet time. Check the bucket
before your business begins, brother’s missing
his socks again and the other one laughing
beneath the blanket. Look again, look back
to the past now parting, now pealing from walls
like wallpaper that clung on too long to linger longer
(don’t pull; it will come to you) they’re climbing
through windows cause the open door has found
its closure after curfew. See him, silly boy,
comical brother, untypical twin, he’s got the window
down and the foot almost in, another step
and he breaks the bed his brother’s asleep in! Hear them
laughing; the bed is broken and Brian thinks he’s dying
but his brother’s already snoring. See them burning
through the flames of time, twisting back, sneaking
Daddy out the front door after dinner for drinks
in the town while Mammy is busy with the bacon
and the bread. See them through the clothes
in the bushes and the beds almost breaking
and the bucket overflowing and the cakes, off running
through streets still standing, still shining a light
on the laughter of children that once rang out
that once, once, once, upon a time…

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on SoundCloud:

 

ONCE, ON A SUNDAY

/ deuxiemepeau / 7 Comments

 

And I see you
standing with apron on
on a Sunday morning,
rollers turning
mum’s sleep
into mother’s style
like time turns
moments into memory,
I see you there
roasting
in the kitchen
before the bacon’s burnt
and the sausages sizzle,
before the decision
of where to go
to find God
(we were faithful then
but never loyal)
hoping to find him
singing somewhere
as it’s Sunday
and it’s spring
and everything seems better
with a song
aside from the peas
you’ve been steeping
since last night (after Dallas)
Mum’s marrow
and soon to be mushy
peas peer back at me
from the distant pan
on a distant Sunday
in the kitchen
on the yellow lino
and the yellow
caged canaries
who died
in their dozens
(careful excavating the yard)
as the morning
moans towards mass,
moves in the memory;
time springing
from somewhere dormant
to somehow recalled.

And I see me
up the stairs
in the biggest room
for the only child
(I took the box-room
for a change of air
in summer)
drawing daydreams
and escape roots
on wooden floors
I stained one summer,
neath the reds walls
others thought angry
and I thought cozy,
maybe happy little me,
happy in my own anger,
happy on my own,
in my own bitter brooding,
brooding for better days
and lips to kiss,
a kiss,
the simplicity of a kiss,
had not yet tasted
from tender lips
that kiss of betrayal
(had not yet tasted
that first kiss
which is gone
once it’s given)
me, in my red walled room
waiting for the hold,
no longer forbidden,
no longer unacceptable,
a bedroom of shelter,
of sanctuary,
of singing out,
out of tune,
out of need,
out of want,
to break out,
I’d repainted walls
and pulled down closets
at 16
now I just needed
to come out of one!

And I see you
in the distance
in that time
that spring recalls
from slumber,
from the window
above the garden,
by the van,
the travelling van,
that white van,
that smelly van
(truly)
washing,
always washing
as if trying to find
something
in all that grease,
in all that confusion;
wash, shine, polish,
harder, rougher,
harder on yourself,
harder on the rest of us,
silence
for the rest of us,
sorrow in the springtime,
no marrow on the bone,
no back bone!
Oh hush now,
you hear me,
you can’t get
beneath the surface
with brute force;
it’s not as strong
as the brute you spray
in the morning
on your frown.
Stop!
See the reflection
in what you have
not just the objection!
Look Daddy;
see it all,
it was all right there
in the kitchen
in her apron,
in the bedroom
in my closet,
she’ll grow tired of you
(she did before)
her foot’s been out the door
longer than it’s been in it!
(Was it ever fully in it?).
Shut it
if you wanna keep it,
have it,
hold it,
for they’re about to run away
and leave you with nothing
but the marrow
going mushy
in the pan
that I never
acquired a taste for,
just like cars
and polish
and peas
and the pieces of you
I couldn’t put together.
Three peas in a pod
that I never learned
to swallow
on a Sunday
in a Spring
that time just can’t digest.

All Words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly

Audio version available on Soundcloud: 

https://soundcloud.com/damien-donnelly-2/once-on-a-sunday

RIVERSIDE

/ deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

 

You were my friends, you were my childhood, our beds by the riverside, 
on the north side of the south, far from the troubles, far from the loyalists
and the loss, loyal to what, I ask?

I see us all now from the far side, from another side, you were always on my side, 
even when I wasn’t, sharing treats by the fireside on rainy days after sturdy stews
when even then we were off and running, dreaming in daylight of distance,
of diversions, of dignity, a ship called dignity to sail along our river,
so the deacons in blue sang, taking us away from all that was so simple,
so special, so sincere, our little lives by the riverside on the drives
and the crescents and the groves.

We drowned only our fears in that barely brook by the riverside,
by the Northside, childhood hang ups; being ginger, being tall, being gay, 
being small, I remember it all today, flowing in from yesterday,
bobbing along on the bottom of a beautiful steady stream
of memories, madness, moments, mothers.

I remember you all from here, from the other side of the river, on the far side
of the world, from the far side of growing, accepting, they call it, understanding,
surrendering but not forgetting, never forgetting, the pampering and the parties,
the new years with old friends, Dave’s guitars, John’s fireworks
and everyone’s songs; should old acquaintances be forgot, as if they could.

I see you all there still, even those who are no longer here, for me
you will always be there, be smiling, be eternal; barking, bold, brilliant, beloved,
you can never be missing if you’ve always been loved, and the others;
who blossomed, who grew, who married, who flew, some have children now,
grown from being children into children baring children.

We were friends, once, in the endless summers under tents with no pretence,
singing songs on the radio, singing through our little lives, a family of friends
who kicked our cans, as you said, played chasing, played games, played house,
mowed lawns, walked dogs, swapped toys and clothes, care bares and fancy paper,
next to the power station, ‘I love you to the power station and back again’,
wasn’t that what was said, when the power station was the end of the world.

All those fine families and faithful friends carried on now,
like the flow of the water, carried away from that riverside,
carried away to life on the other side, following along the course
but never once forgetting the source.

IMG_5253

IMG_5252

All Words by Damien B. Donnelly. Photographs from back at the Riverside.

Nana, Always and Forever

/ deuxiemepeau / 3 Comments

The years roll by
In a hazy blur of time passing
At accelerating speeds-
Another year older
And each subsequent year flies by
Faster than the one before,
Filled with new faces,
New phases,
New beginnings,
And newer goodbyes,
Anniversaries draw near
And that feeling arrives-
That sense of something missing-
But just gone of late,
Just out of sight,
Just around the corner-
A blink from view
Because nothing-
Not even time-
Can fade your face
From the forefront of daily thoughts.

Me, the child grown man
Under your helping hand
And gentle guidance,
Me, the child of your child,
You- Nana- always and forever,
With your splash of Tweed on Sundays
And best brown bread
Baked fresh for breakfast-
The sweet mother of my mother,
How much sweeter is memory
Now that you are a member of it-
Central to it,
Remembered ever onwards-
Not just now,
As that day approaches again-
The one that once darkened our door
In the past,
Not just because Spring
Taps itself on my window
And asks for me to open it and let the air flow in,
Is that you on the gentle breeze
That wraps itself around me
On early morning walks
And journeys home
During sunsets,
Sunsets you watched so often
From your stool,
In the kitchen,
By the window,
Station road,
North of the city,
Counting the busses,
Watching for the kids on the trains
And blessing everyone
With your goodness
And a drop of holy water
If they were lucky enough
To cross through your door.

Are you still there, somewhere, somehow,
Watching the lane
And its comings and goings,
Listening to the football in the field next door-
The shouts and roars and cheers for the save,
Do you still keep up
With who’s moved out,
Who’s moved in,
And who’s passed on-
Are they with you now,
Swapping stories,
Making tea
And laughing at the rest of us
Still battling and balling,
Crying and falling?

What we placed in the ground
Was merely your earthly remains,
Your soul and spirit
Are freer now
Than ever before-
Sometimes I feel you so close
And smile at the comfort that it brings.

Your story is without ending
We carry you, a little treasured piece, within us all
You walk this road, still, with us
Always and forever…

photo-75

 

Ireland- The Emerald and I

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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,

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 reveled

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 neighbors 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.

photo-74

Sunday Morning Rituals/Yesterday Once More

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From your bedroom

This morning,

This ordinary Sunday morning

In September

As I holidayed at home

And watched from the window

The saucy shadow of winter

Teasing the sun’s final rays from the garden,

The scent of your hairspray came

Floating through the air

And transported me

Through a lifetime of living

To that other life we shared together

As mother and son

In the place that once meant home

In the very truest sense of the word-

Where family and friendship were both

Born and battered,

In a place called riverside-

Though the banks of that brook

Were rarely as poetic

As the postal address suggested.

I was 12 again,

Watching you from the hallway,

Tossing and twirling the comb around your curls,

The pink chiffon scarf with its gold trim

Caressing your shoulders-

Catching the glittering flakes of uncaught spray

As you froze your style into place

And etched its vision into my memory.

That smell has become, over decades of time

And an ocean of deep distance that parts me from it,

Forever tied to your Sunday morning ritual

After the peas had been left to steep,

The shoes polished

And the soon-to-be eaten roast had been

Dried, dressed

And doused in as much formality

As we ourselves

Were adorned in

Before we took off,

Along the riverside,

Flaunting our finest

In the face, and for the grace, of God,

Though inside we knew the truth-

This pomp and ceremony was not,

As once suggested,

To serve any invisible deity-

The community’s communion procession

Alone was more fashion on-show than

Faithful conversion of body and soul

But amid this parade of pressed pants

And fall’s favorites,

Crying kids

And Mum’s perfume

I dreamt my life away.

I still remember the boy-

Two rows ahead,

Boxy jacket,

Patient leather shoes and

Quaffed fringe of blonde hair.

He was my Sunday dream

In that house of worship,

I wanted to be him,

To know him,

To love him.

It was he who I prayed to

And knelt before,

It was he who I asked

To be saved and held

And protected-

Not the man in the white robes

Sipping the last splurge of wine,

Standing there above us all-

Looking down but rarely seeing,

Removed from the crowd-

Speaking out but failing to hear.

I already knew

What it was like

To carry a cross

Alone,

Unaided.

This man of the cloth-

With his pious parables from the pulpit

Could not save me,

His words were as foreign to me

As if he had been talking in that very oldest of tongues

That pompous priests once used to preserve for themselves

Their palaces of power while

Leaving parishioners ignorant

To point of the performance.

So it was the boy ahead of me,

The one behind me

And the other one

Two rows across from me

Who became my heralded heroes,

My momentary muses-

My glorious gods of worship-

Men in men’s clothing

Walking in men’s footsteps,

Not vicars in vestments,

Angels on high,

Demons below

Or celestial forms.

My dreams of that neighboring boy’s

Compassion for me

Had just as much obtainability

And promise

As that Boy in the Bible

Who was born for my betterment-

If only I could be like the others,

Act like I was told

And defy the devil within me,

Whether I knew those deemed

Demonic deviations

To be of my

External making

Or a part of my

Inner essence.

Just hours later,

Sunday afternoon rituals

Were setting the fire

With real coals-

Damp from outdoor storage,

Foraging around the local DIY store

While Dad watched the match,

Mum playing records on the radiogram

While I hummed along to

‘Its only just begun’

As I sat by the front window,

Nestled on the back on the big green sofa,

Watching the rain fall

And wondering when the boy would call

To take me away

And let it all begin…

All these memories

Came back clearly to me

This morning,

This Sunday morning

And just like in the song says

‘Some can even make me cry’.

It’s yesterday once more

But altered slightly,

Similar but not the same

Familiar but without the frustration.

It’s still Sunday morning,

We’re still mother and son

In another home we’ve made-

Far from a riverbed

But closer to comfort

And finally

At peace in a place

Where there’s room to grow

In honest understanding of each other,

Those around us and everything that combined

To make us who we are

While allowing us to keep in our hearts

The memory of who we’ve been.

photo-46