In Bed

 

The bed clothes

white clouds, and

her head, an abandoned object,

thrown upon them.

Behind her shut eyes,

who knows what stirs

though still,

so very still.

Snow prints

Brilliant sunlight, gleaming snow;

a new morning, a new earth

except for the trail of footsteps;

some philistine has damaged the canvas.

On closer inspection, a parchment

rich in some Neolithic script:

multiple series of tiny arrows speaking of gods,

grandeur, confusion, berries perhaps.

Bird prints, their writings

on the mysteries of a new earth.

Gilmour's guitar solos

I 'm a sucker for Pink Floyd and those beautiful guitar solos. Sometimes I get a longing to hear them, then light and sound are the same. If you fancy listening try https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uchUg0AKcAU

Gilmour Guitar Solos

Played that guitar with its mouth gaping

teeth spilling out

spinning resorts

high as cumulus

sharp as rain flints

molten fingertips pulling notes

drill-bits pulverising the starry skies

steel tear-strings’ cut ends

whipping around

stratospheric

granite blades

alchemy

wisps into blue.

Going to the Moon

 

T'ang Dynasty poet, Li Po, is said to have died in 762CE when he fell drunk out of a boat trying to embrace the moon.

The enamel white moon made a ladle on the water.

Li Po, a tick full of wine with a romantic heart

rowed his boat up the long handle towards the bowl,

from which light poured bright as molten magnesium

and with the fondest memories of all his loves,

fell into water with arms wide to embrace the moon.

The embrace was chill and shivering; there was no light,

but, deceived by his last lover, he fell through that glory

into the dank cavern that takes us all to our final knowing.

High up above his head the light continued to beckon;

it beckons still to wine-drinkers with love in their hearts..

Troubling Me

 

Last evening I gazed into water,

water gazed into me

and first to speak,

‘you’re lost’, he said.

The eyes seemed empty

to be unthinking,

but they were

and the message was full.

‘Both of us then’, I said

and his eyes were in mine;

I moved along

because he was troubling me.

Words Lassoes Blackbirds

 

Words,

swallows not trains,

swoop and dive;

blackbirds

lassoing the world

in their song,

trout leaps

through rings

in the river

sings;

not trains

no tracks,

but flies

flickering

light and sound

and swallows

swim

and blackbirds

lasso the world

in their song.

Photograph Found

 

I find you among the strewn things in the attic

and pull you clear.

You all but demanded to be lifted

but then go mute.

I drop you back, watch a moment to see you settle;

you’re giving a porcelain vase your lop-sided smile.

It’s not the memories that holds me that bit longer;

but your smile in that heap of junk.

For My Country

It is hard to come to terms with the vicious inhumanity that comes with war. Men, women and children so recently going through the normal routines of life; how hard it is to comprehend the obliteration of that day to day normality we take for granted. All the more so that so many are now giving their lives to have it restored.

For My Country

I am dead

flesh torn, brain unplugged.

For my country,

my body,

all eighteen years of its growing,

I give to its soil.

Dignity

 

Mantegna's wonderful painting was in our family bible. When I was young I used to look at it and marvel; I still do. It wasn't the only painting of its time to take this perspective, but it is the most masterful. The colour reproduction is particularly important in this painting; to my mind the more stone- coloured, marble-coloured, Christ's body the more effective. The monumentalism of the image holds you, not just for spectacle sake, but ties you that bit longer to the experience of lamentation along with the two grieving women. 

To my mind the overwhelming impression is the dignity it conveys, in Christ's expression, His bearing, the setting of the scene, the calm that emanates from the body.

Dignity

on Mantegna’s ‘The Lamentation over the Dead Christ'’

the holes left by nails

the ripped flesh

later inspected by fingers

serene

those sins impounded

beneath closed eyelids

and monumental perspective

marble-like folds in the cloth

rippled upward in musculature

a transfiguration David to pietà

the falling tears

as rain might stir a seedling

A child of four years complains of his worries

 

A child of four years is complaining of his worries,

the television exploding nightly in his living room,

talk of nuclear bombs and he already fearful for the life

he barely knows.

Listening to the news, his father’s forehead wrinkles,

so he wrinkles his; feels that tautness inside but lacks

the words to ask what his worries are and how they got

to be inside him.

Night-time, he cries with the fear of the horrors lurking

in the dark corners of his bedroom, screams out of sleep

and carries those charred eyes into the following day to see

yet again torn bodies and buildings being heaped around him.

Enjoy a cup of coffee

 

A man is out cold on the footpath;

arms, legs splayed limp as shirt-sleeves;

fly open, penis bare;

unkempt, ill-fitting clothes,

dirty and worn.

Passers-by glimpse,

grimace momentarily;

distract themselves urgently

with a fireworks of alternative thoughts,

erase the scene.

It’s nice to stop off in Starbucks,

settle in cosy,

let the stresses of the day drain away.

There’s something nest-like about it,

among the office-workers, students, shoppers.

Holy Well

 

Hope hangs from the trees,

prayers dance;

the sick, the love-lorn

click their fingers;

an enamel mug keeps watch.

The sun and moon try to see

but cannot;

the stars try to land

but cannot.

Stone-made water

nestling in earth’s clasp;

dream of every thirst

always watching, silent as wisdom,

still in thought.

Reaching for my Rucksack

 No holidays since 2019. I’m spending more and more time wanting to see new sights. I want to be dazzled again. So many places! Considering my reluctance to fly, near Europe is looking particularly attractive, and, of those countries, Portugal is the one least travelled to date.

I’m not a beach dweller; I get bored. What I do love is visiting Neolithic, medieval, Roman, early Christian, Pre-Christian, you get it, sites. Churches, ruined castles, palaces, archaeological digs, bridges, towers, wells, bells etc. I have difficulty passing any of them; something to be seen that I haven’t, it irks me.

Back to Portugal. Though it doesn’t have anything like the number of World Heritage Sites to be found in neighbouring Spain, France or Germany; it does have 14 that are quite close to each other and constitute a very doable touring route around the northern two thirds of the country, with Braga the most northerly site and Evora the most southerly.

Starting at Lisbon, heading north via Sintra, Coimbra, Porto onto Braga and returning via the Douro wine-making region, dipping into Spain to include three destinations there, and heading on south via Elvas, Evora back to Lisbon.

17 World Heritage Sites easily included inside two weeks. On the way, I’ll have seen Neolithic, medieval, Roman, early Christian, Pre-Christian sites: churches, ruined castles, palaces, archaeological digs, bridges, towers, wells, bells etc.

Sorted then and happy to resume my couch overlooking Donegal Bay.

Droplets of Water

 

Droplets 

along the sharp edge of a stone

like a chain of headlights

in December traffic,

sidling onto moss greenery,

streaming down an algal thread

to a pool of pellucid water

over a mosaic of coloured stones.

Beads of water, taxis,

carrying you in iotas 

to pools, your thoughts

in subterranean caverns

where the beauties are pin-sized

and, though forgotten,

were once your fireworks.

Cells

 

I think myself eternal:

a lineage unbroken

since the first cell,

carried onward in

the infinity of cells.

I think myself central

to the effervescence

that is existence;

and you too;

I think we are one.