Wearing Masks

Masks are so often associated with fun; a carnival performer wears a mask, but so does the burglar, the salesman, teacher, etc....... Recognizing and understanding masks is essential for survival. This from Felos ainda serra

Everyone imagines him friendly
because his mask has that huge smile;
that wide, bright, unflinching smile.

He moves close into my face;
alone with this cardboard fiction
I feel him watching through his spy-holes.

I do not like masks, the smiling ones least;
he smells my unease;
I see that it is not a smile.

Angry Ex-capitalist

A friend and I used to argue the merits of capitalism/socialism, he being very much in favour of the former. He shot upwards quickly, but at a point in this rise (well into management) found himself not quite at home with the mindset and his career went into reverse. I never said I told you so and, of course, I could never tell him the following poem was about him.

Mind you, people have a very bad memory when it comes to hiccups in their political thinking.A communist I know completely dis-remembered that he had justified Stalin's violent methods after the Soviet system collapsed; and those that trumpeted the victory of capitalism at that time, have been very silent about the current breakdown in their runaway capitalism system.C'est la vie!

This poem was in my second collection "Turn Your Head"

Angry


Among the blocks of the establishment;
a flawless rise bolted your trust;

success was cement,
all loose notions were pebble-dashed.

Now you revise:
the establishment, its self-righteous system:

how many bodies like you
have fallen from the sides to point the pyramid ?

And how many times did you skate over principles,
that I remember, you once held dearly?

Yes, 1971

Still one of my favourite albums, The Yes Album, from 1971. Still sounds fresh, from the soaring exciting opening of "Your's is no Disgrace" through "The Clap" (I love the way they go into it) and then onto this, "Starship Trooper".



Magnificent musicians.I prefer this album to their others. If you don't know them, have a listen on YouTube with volume up high; I think it's among the best from that time.(t'was my grandparents put me onto to them, by the way ;)

Cycling in Alsace

In nicer to be in the view rather than looking it. It surprised a number of people here that we didn't rent a car, but that's what happens; you drive from beautiful town to beautiful town, passing all the time more beautiful countryside. So when we heard there were mountain bikes, Catherine and I decided: no car. In the event we have been brought to some of the more alluring 'car' destinations by our very kind and friendly neighbours here in Rosheim, not far from Strasbourg.

The countryside is charming; my abiding impression will be of red-roofed villages scattered across a quilt-work of green and yellow fields beneath the dark-wooded Vosges mountains. But I am so impressed by the freedom to roam among the corn and vine fields along the thousands of miles of chemins that are a lacework on this part of France.

How nice this would be in Ireland where many people have given up cycling, driven off the roads by speeding cars. Frankly it's time, now that so much of the population is urbanised, that country rights of way were identified and put into service for this purpose.

Anyway, that said, Alsace has impressed me; I'm trying out the white wines with enthusiasm, enjoying the Tart Flambees and warmth, sweet sunshine.

Ownership of Your Work

I have been wondering what degree of control poets (writers) will have on the use of their work on the internet under the Google Book Settlement; it's something I still have to look into. In the meantime I found a site of translations of poets' works, particularly Spanish poets, and there in the middle was a translation of one of my own.Chuffed and all as I was to be included, surely it's only reasonable to consult authors; surely that level of understanding can exist at least between lovers of poetry.

Anyway this is the poem under copyright to myself and the Dedalus Press; it was in "Sunfire"


The baby in the tree


The baby in the tree
is screaming.

High above the pathway
near the black tips
of the sycamore branches
he is gaping,
white membraned luminous.

How did he get there?

He blew there in the wind;
it took him
like a flag from his cot
till he was stretched
across the boughs
like the wings of a bat.

And who sees him?

I do;
all his hopeless writhing,
too high for the passerby.
And his screams:
too high,
too high for the passerby.

Book Launching - Full Details

Keep the afternoon of Sunday 23rd August free for a visit to the Botanic Gardens. After a few hours exploring, dawdling and drinking in sunshine come to the Lecture Theatre in the Visitors’ Centre for music by well known flautist and harpist, Ellen Cranitch and Geraldine O’Doherty respectively,(apart from her work as musician, Ellen will be familiar to many as presenter of “Grace Notes” on Lyric FM); introduction by myself and poetry reading from her new collection by Mary Melvin Geoghegan. The collection is called “When They Come Home” and is published by Summer Palace Press.

The event begins at 3.30pm, is free and is a perfect way to cap a perfect Sunday afternoon.

Treasures

There are a small number of songs that I get a longing to hear now and then. The reasons: to sharpen a memory, or feel again what it was like in a particular place or to be with a particular person, or to remember a love. Sometimes they stir feelings that help in writing, evoke a sadness or a particular time, maybe they are just beautiful.

I would include among these, “The First Time Ever I saw Your Face” (Roberta Flack), “America” (Simon and Garfunkel); I think I’ll stop, I’m beginning to notice that there’s a time element here I didn’t want to get into.

Anyway tonight, travelling back to Dublin through counties Fermanagh and Cavan, all silhouettes and quiet, and lit by a full moon at midnight; I felt like listening to Caetano Veloso’s “Cucurrucucu Paloma”. It is a treasure you unwrap very very seldom, something precious, you savor it, then put it safely away.

If you don't know it already, do yourself a favour and watch this YouTube video:



And for good measure you can see Roberta Flack at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Knh9pV4EB3k Lovely.

Google Book Settlement

It’s an unexpected turn of events to find myself considering whether I will opt into Google’s Book Settlement or not. The settlement, which I expect will affect two of my collections, requires study. It does, however, seem strange that the onus is on me (and my publishers) to opt out of a settlement which involves my own books.

The issue arises directly from the impact of computer technology on the use of printed work in books and it has ramifications that are probably not yet understood by most; most importantly by most authors. I, for one, don’t know the arguments pro and con, and doubt the deadline for deciding on my position allows me enough time to study it adequately.

So it looks as though the coming weeks will see publishers in particular gathering the relevant information in order to advise themselves and their authors on how to proceed. The consequences might well be among the most far-reaching for the business of writers and publishers ever.

Google have information online at http://www.googlebooksettlement.com/

A Child's Heaven

Boyhood. We spent countless summer hours catching minnows. They were the most happy, carefree times of my life. Maybe that’s why work doesn’t do it for me; empty hours filled with the heat of the sun and the buzzing of bumble bees in a field of buttercups and a sparkling stream running through it: that’s my idea of heaven.

Then and Now


Light cavorting on the stream,
choruses of flies on dung,
the flush green of Roscommon fields.

Whole afternoons I would spend
watching minnows dart
beneath those smidereens of sunlight.

Larder to larder, cold flowing weed,
combed fresh opulence.
No trickery in a jam jar; dull brown they died.

This morning sitting in Dublin;
smidereens of sunlight played on the ceiling
and I remembered this.

Way To Go

In Co. Donegal there seems to be more energy when it comes to organising arts and cultural events than anywhere else in Ireland. This year’s Earagail Arts Festival ended on July 19th after two weeks of a tremendous and very varied programme of events. What a sense of vigour this festival brings to the area. Venues scattered across the northern half of the county, from Tory to Ballybofey, Gweedore to Carndonagh all going full tilt.

And of course that doesn’t include festivals like Mary from Dungloe (currently happening) nor the Ballyshannon Traditional Festival (next week), nor festivals like the Rory Gallagher and Bundoran’s Sea Sessions (already gone).

But what strikes me about the Earagail Arts Festival is the notion of a whole region in fortnight-long celebration. The potential pulling power, the notion of a full county or region, not only beautiful, with world class beaches and scenery, but also for a fortnight or a month in full party mode. Surely this would draw even more tourists, is this not the perfect slogan for a county in recessionary times? Could it not be used throughout Ireland; not just visit the Lakelands, but the Lakelands are celebrating all Summer long.

Interesting to see in connection with this, Donegal County Development Board’s Cultural Compass Research Project 2007-2008 Report, “a piece of research to present a snapshot of the current cultural infrastructure and activities in County Donegal”, and three findings in particular stand out:

“In 2007 - 2008, 40 cultural facilities attracted approximately 480,000 visitors to the county, highlighting the significant role Culture plays in the development of tourism in the county.”

“The report highlights that 69 of the respondents surveyed employed 1077 staff, a figure that makes up 1.5% of the total paid employment in the county.”

and
“The report further concludes that 46 respondents alone showed that Cultural infrastructure benefited the Donegal economy by almost €18 million in 2007 - 2008.”

Way to go!

Boulevard Magenta

The Boulevard de Magenta in Paris is named after the battle of Magenta, fought in June 1859 near Magenta, Italy. It was a victory for the French over the Austrians. There is an Irish connection: the French were lead by General Patrice de Mac-Mahon, whose family were originally from Co Limerick. He was given the title Duc de Magenta after the battle.

Boulevard Magenta is the title of a new, biannual, arts and literary publication launched by IMMA in June. I had a look at it yesterday. It is in A4 format, with well known contributors including Francesco Clemente, Seamus Heaney, Nalini Malani, David Mitchell, Sean Scully, Colm Tóibín and many others. The reproductions are high quality, glossy and it’s generous in size. The cover gives it a stuffy appearance and will possibly direct it towards a specific audience; at €25 it’s not exactly geared to my pocket.

However it’s good to have a new, high quality, Irish arts publication. Issue 1, Summer 2009 is available now; I wish IMMA and particularly IMMA Director, Enrique Juncosa (a poet himself), who instigated it, every success with the venture.

Cézanne's Mountain

Cézanne’s 75 reproductions of Mont Sainte-Victoire near Aix-en-Provence in oil and water colours are studies in the effects of changing light on the landscape and the changing moods and atmospheres created by these shifts of light. Everyday, indeed every hour, brings a new mountain. You look at it afresh. It looms over the surrounding country side reflecting summer-bright hues, winter’s brooding shadows and all in between. Happiness to despair. Not just this but like the facets of a diamond, different faces of the mountain reflect different moods at the same time. The effect is a challenge to the artist, not to recreate the scene, but to catch the moods.

I look at some of these images regularly; wanting to get the same thing: a palette of feelings; but I can’t quite get it. It’s like waiting for a run of fish, the first fish to bite. I wait for the run of thoughts to take hold.

I have tried the same with photographs of Sam Beckett’s face, also craggy, noble and expressive, but no success.

I’m not finished yet though. Here’s a two-part presentation on Cézanne’s mountain which I found interesting.

Part 1.




Part 2.

Blessed with lots of dull weather

I’m walking along Murvagh beach just south of Donegal town. It’s all but empty; a beautiful stretch, maybe two miles of pristine sandy coastline; undeveloped, unpolluted, unlittered. Looking to the southwest, Mullaghmore juts into the sea, Ben Whiskin and Ben Bulben loom above in varying shades of watercolour blue.

Ben Bulben, the most majestic gravestone imaginable; Yeats is buried at its foot under the words “ Cast a cold eye/On life, on death/Horseman, pass by!”. And not far beyond, but out of view, is the town of Sligo, arguably the most beautifully situated town in Ireland, being, as it is, between lake, mountain and sea.

Just south of Murvagh are two similarly beautiful stretches of sandy beach, Rosnowlagh and, on the other side of Ballyshannon, Tullan Strand.

Imagine these beaches at lower latitudes: a promenade of tacky bars and discos blairing music, chippers, souvenir shops with shamrock emblazoned ashtrays and woolly lerechauns, on the beach lines of deck chairs at ten euros each, grim multi-story appartment blocks, long stretches of beach cordoned off for different hotels, pedal boats, hawkers stopping you every few minutes, and the sea outside cut up with speed boats, banana boats and various other money-making geegaws.

I suppose in recessionary times this might have some appeal; but today there is only the marvellous beauty of the place, unspoiled for now, and a feeling of gratitude for dull Irish weather.

The Muse

When people are in love their minds keep turning like washing machines. Thoughts and emotions going round and around, the accompanying commentary with them. No wonder then that so much poetry has come from individuals with love issues.

Visit

When I am sleeping
you come
softly over these stones;
I turn deeper.
You slip words into my ears,
liquid syllables,
sickles sliding down.

Night-time turns drunk;
longing for more,
your tongue to enwrap me;
I turn deeper.
You trickle down dreams;
our limbs braided,
we slip into one.

Two Hands

Photographer: Michael Wells (1980)

There is no country on this planet deserving of the accolade “a great power”. There is the “ powerful” and there’s those that die in the wake of their miss-spent power.

Brace yourself before watching the following video.