Audio: Michael reads 2 poems from his new collection, 'The Sound of Water Searching'.

To The Slaughterhouse, Klimt Moment

What is a Kingfisher?

 

Kingfisher:

an emission of blue light

resulting from

the discharge of electricity

following the path

of shortest distance

between two trees

along a river

and flaring momentarily

at the tip of the cathodic branch

before termination of the event;

a shy bird.

Under the Stairs

 

That blackness, beyond the storage boxes,

tins of polish, hoover and copper kettle

was, in the beginning, a solid-looking barrier;

I had no intention of going near it.

Time passed, I ventured further. On my knees

into the space, discovering shadowy discards,

dismantled appliances, things unknown to me, perhaps

from an earlier time and still that pitch unknown ahead of me.

A cave, a bottomless shaft to Australia, to Hell?

Eventually I breached the darkness and found it stopped

right there, wood; a prosaic end to my fantasies,

a step out of childhood.

A snowfall in Harold’s Cross Park in May

 

I stop to gaze upwards into the falling petals,

filling my eyes with their gentle movement,

ears with the silence that descends with snow

and am for those moments lost to this world;

and wishing to share with another that silence,

notes played by petals that just shimmer down;

someone to share an enchantment; not just the fall

but the precariousness of so beautiful a moment.

A Memory of my Father

 

 

Shaft of sunlight, 

reflection off a million specks 

of dust, 

feeding his face with lines and grace

 – soft light paints old faces  

the friendliness of sweet Autumn apples –. 

Hands held down to his grand-daughter,

she looking up into his face;

the delicacy of the moment

as Vermeer would have caught it

in the light that spills down

from a hole in the clouds.

Days of our Lives

 o we’d have a coffee, maybe two, then off

into town by the side streets, looking for

red-brick houses with lilac doors and yellow

window frames. Drop into the IFI, sit over

another coffee, browsing the catalogue with half interest,

the steady drift of film-goers and idlers with more.

On down Dame Street to College Green,

enjoying our navigation of ever-shifting crowds,

the dexterous manoeuvrability of ourselves.

In Hodges Figgis we’d scan the poetry

shelves and the art books, those names and titles

settling in our heads like we were travelling the

world: Heaney, Mahon, Carver, Balthus,

Kahlo, Lorca, Basho, Holub ‒ dabs of fresh paint

and print to keep us informed for a month or two ‒

before returning to Grafton Street to knit crooked stitches

through the crowds, stop a few minutes to hear a busker

play a saw or slide guitar then around to Tower Records

to be tempted by some new ECM arrival in the jazz section.

George’s, Aungier, Wexford, Camden, Richmond Streets;

the diminishing scale of a city’s architecture, and

the backwards walk down the telescope to the landscape

of our normal lives. Crossing the border at the canal, with

its familiar vista down Rathmines Road to the mountains

beyond; we, like fish, breathing easier in our own habitat,

saw our hurdles flattened, but, perhaps, never recognized

the days of our lives?

That beautiful odyssey: Saturdays, mid-morning to mid-afternoon;

or maybe it was just one Saturday,

or, maybe, it wasn’t at all.

Dublin Launch of New Collection

My new collection, The Sound of Water Searching, will be launched by poet, playwright Vincent Woods at 8.30pm, Friday, March 25th in Drop Dead Twice on Francis Street. The launching will be followed by The Upstairs Sessions, a monthly night of performances of all kinds which never fails to entertain. 

I have, of course, notified Dublin Airport that there will be a spike in air traffic and Ryanair have laid on extra flights. I expect the ports will also experience difficulties, but it is generally understood that the launching is an event of exceptional importance both nationally and internationally. So, I recommend you get there early. 😉

 

My New Collection, 'The Sound of Water Searching'

It's been a long time coming and, needless to say, I think it's the literary event of the year. The Sound of Water Searching is now available from Lapwing Publications. Available in soft cover only, it costs £10/€12 plus postage. For purchasing information email  https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/to-buy-a-lapwing-title For information on Lapwing Publications email lapwing.poetry@ntlworld.com   You can contact me at mmodros@gmail.com 

The Sound of Water Searching

From personal poems that draw on "the emptied out treasure-chests of childhood" to reflections on the work of Elaine Leigh, John Minihan, Mick O'Dea and others, Michael O'Dea is interested in the ways that memory, experience, and meditation inform the life of the poet. The poems gathered in The Sound of Water Searching give voice to his ceaseless commitment to the artistic process: a "beautiful odyssey" that takes us from Dublin to Galicia and beyond.                      

Philip Coleman (Trinity College Dublin)

Turbulent Trees

 

Waves spinning their white bellies over;

fulminating riptides,

turbulent trees.

Fire from their leaves catching,

infect the fields with their delirium;

colours, spilling out from their domains,

eddy and spring

riotous, brilliant.

Their smoke towers uncoiling into the sky

climax in fantastical menageries.

Wind and Tree

 

‘You’re still here’ said the wind to the tree;

‘And where else would I be, this is home!’

But the wind was already gone.

Some days later, ‘But don’t you get bored?’

‘Even the stirring of soil beneath my roots interests me

                                      when I am home,’ said the tree.

But the wind was already gone.

When passing again, the wind asked, ‘Don’t you long to travel?’

‘This place and I are inseparable lovers.’

But the wind was already gone.

The next time the tree asked, ‘Won’t you stop a moment?’

‘Oh, to have such freedom!’ replied the wind

and it already gone.

Moonlight Shimmering

 

Last night the moonlight shimmered on the water;

I stood at my window watching its languid movement.

Lover slip into the pool;

swim immediately beneath the surface

luminescent nudity,

amorphous fluidity.

Sea gently clap,

mountains hunch forward;

squinting house eyes

see how the moon swims in the bay.

Last night the sun’s lover went shining on the ocean;

I stood at my window and watched like shadows watch.

Pandemic Times

Things have improved, there was a time, not long ago, when windows looked like they were going to be omnipresent in our future relations; it was upsetting and somehow ridiculous. Here's Kay and I not too long ago meeting our daughter; sad to say, it's likely to happen again.