Coming upon the Old Abbey

The silver drizzle is making ghosts of the hills,

the ruin’s limestone walls hulking presences,

the round tower a vortex into the unknown.

A bell’s footsteps comes clanging across the dawn,

sandals slap along the flags, creak of iron hinges

and the susurrus of monks gathering in the choir.

The voices, suddenly a deep brown river flowing,

fill the nave, flow sure and steady out into the valley

spreading their primal credo, a rich fertile soil.

The rain is everywhere: in the fields’ greenery,

a skim on the lichened stones, sweeping through the air,

through the lancet windows high above the chancel.

Stones

The shock of such order,

that ruthless military precision even in death.

Those countless, spotless ranks of gravestones

with every step creating a new geometry;

symmetries shifting, slipping into new symmetries.

Step together men,

stones.

The shape of perfection

The shape of perfection is in the shadow

at the heart of a ripple; it is fish-shaped.

The shape of a life,

a problem posed and solved, shape of a day.

The shape of a belief, a mood, vibration;

a single surge from the heart.

The shape of any historical event or movement,

of a flame, an idea, desire or hope.

The 4 Wonders of Clonmacnoise

Learned light from water,

made it stone;

spun birds' chirpings,

wove them through the rafters;

harvested the greenness of fields

and cast it into a ringing bell;

marvelled at the bronze-glinting fishes,

penned books for nets.

‘Why isn’t he called Murphy like all the rest of them’

Boris Johnson on Leo Varadkar: ‘Why isn’t he called Murphy like all the rest of them’. 

Back in the 18^th century most Murphys probably lived under thatches just like the one he lives under.

Remind you of anyone?


(Thanks to IrishCentral for photo.https://www.irishcentral.com/roots/history/the-magic-of-irelands-thatched-cottages-photos)  

Workshops and Readings in Roscommon Arts Centre, September 14th

It's a bit off yet, but I'll be one of three giving a reading and workshop in Roscommon Arts Centre on Sep 14th; poet Jane Clarke and Brian Leyden make up the trio. So for the purposes of comprehensive, long-term planning here's the information.


Heartlands Writers is an afternoon of masterclass workshops followed by an evening’s miscellany of words and music.Here's the blurb:

In her workshop, 'The Art of Metaphor', the highly acclaimed poet Jane Clarke will look at the role of metaphor in creative writing. Suitable for beginners and experienced writers of prose and poetry, participants are invited to come with a favourite poem or a few lines of prose where they find the metaphor/s exciting, intriguing or moving and go away with new work and ideas for developing their writing.

The vastly experienced and inspirational author Brian Leyden will bring his much sought after expertise to guide and encourage participants to see what they write with a fresh eye, a clearer sense of personal style, and a new confidence in a workshop entitled 'Write On  ̶̶  finding your voice and confidence to write -'.

Michael O’Dea, poet and teacher of creative writing, will facilitate writers in the fining of their work in 'Sculpting a Poem from the Rough Block', a workshop that follows the complete process of a writing a poem. Pick up on the many writing tips that will be peppered throughout.

The event begins at 2pm with a short reading, followed at 3pm by your choice of workshop; later that evening, at 7pm (allowing time for food), a Sunday Miscellany style reading/music event will round the day off. Look forward to seeing you there.

Dread of an Apparition

The Dread of an Apparition

The most effective means
of avoiding a death fright
by apparition
might have been my blanket
but for the thinness of its cover
and the need to obey
Heaven's commands
which do not stop at blankets.
The problem was Mary's
predilection for teens
and my undoubted piety.
Therefore I can say
without any hesitation,
my earliest plans to reject Catholicism,
thereby putting myself
safely beyond the fence,
were due to apparitions;
their lightning
and ghastly messages. 





                                 

God Creates Barnesmore in a Week

Monday was murky, the house was all percussion with rain;

God made the mountains and hills, but minimally:

mere suggestions of fir, fern, sally, of uneven slope in the foreground;

beyond that, the cloud gathered like smoke, thickened white as toothpaste,

so there was nothing to see, just a blankness,

and He was pleased with that.

Tuesday, similar; the road with the grass traffic-line

puddled and shining; the lawn an exuberance of green growth,

of docks gleefully extending themselves, all needing to be mown.

He left the mountains out completely; just made the hawthorns beyond

the garden-fence, and left the rest to whatever He wished to dream up,

and He was happy with that.

Wednesday morning the clouds had shifted and He knew

He was going to have to mow the lawn.

He went at the mountains again, inserting undulations,

rocky outcrops, streams, ravines, stretches of evergreen forestry

and above it all bare rocky crests.

He stood on the footpath, hands on hips, surveying it all

And was very pleased.

Thursday too was fine. He took out one of the fold-up chairs

and sat surveying the geography he had created.

Saw that it must fit into a wider landscape, so sculpted hills,

more gentle in curvature and ever decreasing in height

and flattened them eventually into gentle pastures that tipped

down towards the sea, a silvery sliver at edge of His view,

and He was again quite pleased.

Friday, less than satisfied with the whole thing, He put sheep

round-backed onto the slopes and set them moving to and fro like amoebae,

birds flitting through the near distance, swallows swooping

and a magpie perched on the electric wire just over from the house,

then more sheep, shock-eyed, and foul-arsed foraging up to the fence;

and He was pleased.

Saturday, clouds rolling in from the west, was spent erasing, restyling,

erasing, reordering the whole scene. Feverishly, all day long

tippexing out sections which led Him into that chain of changes;

most of the day the summits were absent like the head off a statue,

the week's fine details obliterated and recast at speed, until, near evening

the clouds cleared, and He eventually packed it in

and seemed satisfied.

Sunday, He was slow to rise, and when he did, attacked the Sunday

newspapers. Later He watched The Sunday Match, and, to tell the truth,

I don’t think He looked at the hills all that day.

Raspberries

Raspberries prefer to die than be captured;

keep the bowl beneath them as you pick.

They have a hankering for tall wet grass;

turn into blood between your fingers,

squash in an instant, drip away to safety.

All I’m saying is, don’t take them for granted;

they have a turn of speed, and they get away.

What is true

What is true 

is that we have given deception sanction,

emboldened the abuse of power.

We have loosened the last rock of answerable governance,

 given liars our permission to lie to us,

made our democracies unsafe, morality defunct;

given a nod to the prcatice of  dictatorships.

.