Doesn't red sound nice

From Ted, a compelling argument for becoming a cyborg.

Anguish




 

Mouth:

howl, that shape.

 

We

leave it space.
 

 

The space gets bigger.

Detail from Francis Bacon's Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion,1944

 

Once my father and I found a skull

in a field with the hum of a bee inside.

My father said it was a last thought,

that a man’s last thought stays forever

in his head. 

I didn’t want to touch the skull,

just to move closer to see a last thought;

but as I did the bee flew out and I ran

terror-stricken back to my father;

horrified for having tipped the natural order.

Expressing Depression

 'O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall/Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed'.

These lines cause me to wonder if the search for the appropriate words, and the subsequent expression of one's condition helps to ease the effects of depression. By making a prayer of it, I assume Hopkins was shifting some of the weight towards heaven.


No Worst, there is None.

                                   by Gerard Manley Hopkins

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,

More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.

Comforter, where, where is your comforting?

Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?

My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief

Woe, wórld-sorrow; on an áge-old anvil wince and sing —

Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked "No ling-

ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief."

    O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall

Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap

May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small

Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,

Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all

Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

 

 

In My Mouth

Love, the word: 

lush;

a summer night’s rain.

Itself:

taut, brittle.

 

I had it on the end of a forceps;

bead of mercury:

it escaped.

Love, the word:

I swallowed it. 

Demented Trees

Trees keening winter nights away;

their wails woven into the wind.

Heads of hair like seaweed from the strand,

knots tailing limply towards the sea.

Underground, roots twisted toward some source,

shaped by memory.

Trees like abandoned lovers,

scratching down the marble of night-time.

from Above Ground Below Ground

Seamus Heaney

In the last few days, thousands of people will be remembering the day the met Seamus Heaney; experiencing the sadness one experiences on losing a friend. He had that ability, with gentle smile and generous engagement, to make a stranger a friend in a fleeting exchange.

It seems appropriate to listen again to his beautiful poem ‘When all the others were away at Mass’, now that those encounters are memories.

This links to footage of him reciting some of his most famous poems; ‘When all the others were away at Mass’ is included.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/ailbhemalone/videos-of-seamus-heaney-reading-his-poems-aloud

The Roscommon Anthology - Culture Night Reading

The Roscommon Anthology  will most likely be launched in October, but the first Anthology reading will happen on Culture Night. Alice Lyons, Gerry Boland (Roscommon's current writer in residence) and myself will be reading at 7pm, Friday, 20th September in Roscommon Library. As with all events on Culture Night, admission is free. So put it in the book.