Mont Sainte Victoire

 

Cezanne's Mountain 

i

Like ice, like iron,

glass, air, granite.  

 

The sun inside it,

through it, off it.

 

Purpling into thunder,

convulsing cumulusly,

 

bulging

 into storm.  

 

ii 

Sugary brilliance this morning,

the brow of Provence

clear as the first day;

a tooth, a molar.

The Beauty

From the shit slops she grew;

we marvelled.

Such a slim, graceful beauty

from our soil,

that crystalline perfection

from our sphagnum sponge;

such iciness, hauteur.

 

Such a bitch, we all agreed,

yet every man longed for her gaze

to soften on him.

To be in her ice trail,

to hope to bed her;

such power over men and women:

the witch.

from Painting Women

 

 

                         Balance 

                                                                                                                                              a brushstroke tips it

  

       He adds                                                                                     counterweights

                                                              

                                                                                                                                                        corrects

  

                     She arrives                                                                by bristles of a

  

                                                              brush          

  

                                                                                  a construction                                                                 of
     
   light

  

                                      acrylic

  

                                                                                                                         on  paper                 

At One End of a Bench

 

At one end of a bench

an old man wearing Winter clothes

regards the fountains and Summer

through melt-water irises.

 

This man needs my ear to be a conch

so that he can call to the past down these auditory canals.

And when he calls, his wife and sons will resurrect,

return, reverse like filings into a family.

 

It is mid-morning in Stephen's Green;

the usual sounds: clacking fowl and fountain symphonies,

outside the thrash of traffic and voices.

 

In a moment,

two strangers on a bench are traveling backwards to Mayo;

elsewhere a beggar has recreated himself in a bank window

and somewhere, busy in a kitchen, a woman is conversing

though the voice that answers has not been heard for years.

Where the poetry comes from

Reflection and dreaming, in a nutshell.

Where The Poetry Comes From

 

Fathomless blue;

blue sky. 

Two swallows proclaiming it

are extravagant 

dancers in an empty ballroom.

A church bell chimes 

two, three, five o’ clock;

no matter. 

Tracing curves to unending time;

a route to south Africa?

Fathomed true;

Blue sky.

Reviving the Irish language: a cultúrlann for Dublin

Why throw our hands up in despair? The Irish language is on the verge of extinction; we’ve known all along, the death rattles have been deafening for a hundred years. In highlighting the rapid decline in the usage of the Irish language in the Gaeltacht areas, the authors of the recent report have also drawn into question the current Government’s level of commitment to the preservation of our language.

A friend of mine, language teacher from Germany, visiting Dublin asked to go somewhere where she could hear the language being used. I balked. The same difficulty applied to myself years ago, when as one of a group of sixteen year olds returning from the Irish language summer college, we agreed to have a reunion in Dublin; but where? Where is the centre for speakers of our language in our capital city?

2016 is a year of celebration; the question being asked is how best do we commemorate, not only the people and events of 1916, but our Irishness. I suggest that the finest and most practical gesture we can make is the establishment of a cultúrlann that, at one stroke, solves difficulties like those I’ve outlined and proclaims our commitment to the preservation of our Irish heritage. And we don’t have to reinvent the wheel, but look at the model that is Cultúrlann McAdam Ó Fiaich, just up the road in Belfast.

Coffee shop, theatre, art gallery, book-shop; a place that will encourage all who want to speak Irish, hear it spoken. A warm place, open all day and full of positivity towards the Irish language and culture. For now we need people with some imagination and a fondness for Irish in order to make a start.

With You

   

The fields, green with snow

under an apple blue sky; 

you, brimming

winter’s brightness, 

turning cartwheels;

your whole body grinning. 

The silver trees of our breathing

in full flower; 

my golden happiness

in being with you 

till the shafts of shadow

turned purple at sunset; 

       and our hours together

       colourless at parting.