Heartlands Writers Event Cancelled

Unfortunately ‘The Heartlands Writers’ event due to take place this Saturday, 14^th Sept, has had to be cancelled.  I am hopeful that one or more literary events will take its place  in  the coming year. 

Reminder: Workshops and Readings in Roscommon

HEARTLANDS WRITERS

with JANE CLARKE, BRIAN LEYDEN and MICHAEL O’ DEA

A celebration of writers from the Hidden Heartlands with an afternoon of masterclass workshops followed by an evening’s miscellany of words and music in Roscommon Arts Centre.

2pm: Registration

2.15pm – 3pm: Readings and Workshop Introductions.

3.15pm – 5pm: Workshops

The Arts of Metaphor: Acclaimed poet Jane Clarke will look at the role of metaphor in creative writing. 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.

Write On: Author Brian Leyden will bring his expertise to guide and encourage participants to write with a fresh eye, a clearer sense of personal style, and a new confidence.

Sculpting a Poem from the Rough Block: Michael O’Dea, poet and teacher of creative writing, will facilitate writers in the fining of their work and follows the complete process of a writing a poem.

7pm – 8.30pm: Literary Miscellany.  Enjoy a series of readings from Jane, Brian and Michael interspersed with musical interludes.

SATURDAY 14th SEPTEMBER | €15 Workshops | €15 Literary Miscellany | €25 Workshops & Literary Miscellany

Me Today

My brain is on a pole approximately 80cm from my head;

there’s a dull ache in its place, and my thoughts are crossing the gap

                         at greatly reduced speeds.

My eyes are transmitting from a station on a nearby hill;

everything is drawn with broad black outline, so each object is more its shape

                                                                                   than itself.

My ears, however, are firmly in their place, and appear to have evolved

to the point that I am aware of collisions in the remotest regions of the universe;

            this, to me, is particularly unsettling.

Passing

Dusty light falling through the trees,

their apple-laden branches,

settling on the tall grass, thriving nettles,

is sealing the orchard in a kind of torpor.

.

The fat apples, awaiting the picking that will not come,

avow, as light the darkness around it,

our transience:

time and purpose.

We pray for the monks on High Island

High island pitching tossing, appearing disappearing,

in the dragon waves angered, now awake, risen from their silent deep.

I saw its sail, Féichín’s church rising falling through the flailing rain,

and him, a cross, arms extended; eyes, ovals of pain, elongated upwards;

mouth, grotesque black hollow gouged deep in weathered shale.

We prayed for them: six monks floundering in the ocean’s thrashing jaws;

that the weight of their sins would not drag them to their deaths;

that the light of God would shine and the saint would climb, extend his hands,

a rope, pull the others from the cleansing rage; that the light would split the sky,

send Lucifer’s demons  scurrying out beyond the margins of the sea.

Search

I am here, I remind myself slightly drunken.

I am; but I am not the same I am.

I look inside this evening to find the change;

I look inside the corners, the furniture,

And  am decided that the change is

The wish to search.

Reading AT The Edge

Reading AT The Edge  this Tuesday, 27th August, in the Johnston Library, Cavan will be poets: Jessamine O’Connor from Roscommon, Glen Wilson from Fermanagh, Jackie O’Gormon  from Athlone and Cavan's new writer in residence, Anthony J Quinn.  There will be an open mic after the readings.  It's the latest in a series which has been featuring excellent readers for a number of years now thanks to the support of Cavan Arts Office . The event is at 6.30pm.

The Cursing Stones

There were eight stones on the altar near the lake, moss-covered

and sitting in depressions like fossil eggs.

All around the grass was lush and saturated after rain,

my footsteps left a little pathway through it.

I won’t pretend that I didn’t feel slightly ridiculous,

never having been superstitious, but I wasn’t  likely to use a gun;

I paused a while then turned all eight ninety degrees anticlockwise;

paused another moment in reconsideration, then hurried away.

I did not have long to wait; two days later he fell and broke his femur;

a month after his youngest was severely hurt in a car crash.

He never did well from his change of mind about our deal,

and there’s a road near a lake I cannot travel down.

Thought

When I fell, my bones separated;

they became a stream;

I ran with them.

They carried me out;

took me to where I would not have gone.

Sometimes I see where I was stuck.

The Seas Are Deep

I got the idea for this listening to Lynn Saoirse, harpist, playing O'Carolan's piece of the same name in the beautiful gothic church on the grounds of Kylemore Abbey. 

The Seas Are Deep

The seas are deep, dark and soundless.

We love too much for here, my darling,

I lose you in the forests of sound and energy.

Let me look into your face, then jump

through the turbulence of this world

into the calm of your smile, and it only,

sealed in my head within the eternity of water.

Still Safari

‘Like Noah’s ark, all the wildlife used to come to this waterhole;

elephant, zebra, impala, warthog, baboon, even the lions;

what an amazing sight it was!’

‘The display boards are positioned exactly where the animals,

all different species, used to drink side by side. Of course,

it would have been dangerous to stand where you’re standing right now.’

‘The photographs are from 2019; the film in the centre from the 1970s;

not long ago, you can see the decline in population. The recreations are brilliant;

don’t forget to get the photograph of your head in the lion’s mouth.’

Vision

A hawthorn lurched on the mountainside,

when the red sun whispered in its ear.

Swallows drew rings around an answer,

but the answer was not there.

I turned from the window to look inside

and saw you, a scone and balance in your hands.

The Well

                                                                                                                                                                                                              

Holy well at Killargue, Co Leitrim

The Well

I have left my hopes for the future dancing in a tree,

a tree growing on solid rock.

The bottom of the well is a mosaic of shining coins,

each a beacon for someone’s dream.

Where gods immemorial have changed water to verdure,

there is the place to sow a seed.

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.