Mont Sainte Victoire

 

Cezanne's Mountain 

i

Like ice, like iron,

glass, air, granite.  

 

The sun inside it,

through it, off it.

 

Purpling into thunder,

convulsing cumulusly,

 

bulging

 into storm.  

 

ii 

Sugary brilliance this morning,

the brow of Provence

clear as the first day;

a tooth, a molar.

The Beauty

From the shit slops she grew;

we marvelled.

Such a slim, graceful beauty

from our soil,

that crystalline perfection

from our sphagnum sponge;

such iciness, hauteur.

 

Such a bitch, we all agreed,

yet every man longed for her gaze

to soften on him.

To be in her ice trail,

to hope to bed her;

such power over men and women:

the witch.

from Painting Women

 

 

                         Balance 

                                                                                                                                              a brushstroke tips it

  

       He adds                                                                                     counterweights

                                                              

                                                                                                                                                        corrects

  

                     She arrives                                                                by bristles of a

  

                                                              brush          

  

                                                                                  a construction                                                                 of
     
   light

  

                                      acrylic

  

                                                                                                                         on  paper                 

At One End of a Bench

 

At one end of a bench

an old man wearing Winter clothes

regards the fountains and Summer

through melt-water irises.

 

This man needs my ear to be a conch

so that he can call to the past down these auditory canals.

And when he calls, his wife and sons will resurrect,

return, reverse like filings into a family.

 

It is mid-morning in Stephen's Green;

the usual sounds: clacking fowl and fountain symphonies,

outside the thrash of traffic and voices.

 

In a moment,

two strangers on a bench are traveling backwards to Mayo;

elsewhere a beggar has recreated himself in a bank window

and somewhere, busy in a kitchen, a woman is conversing

though the voice that answers has not been heard for years.

Where the poetry comes from

Reflection and dreaming, in a nutshell.

Where The Poetry Comes From

 

Fathomless blue;

blue sky. 

Two swallows proclaiming it

are extravagant 

dancers in an empty ballroom.

A church bell chimes 

two, three, five o’ clock;

no matter. 

Tracing curves to unending time;

a route to south Africa?

Fathomed true;

Blue sky.

Reviving the Irish language: a cultúrlann for Dublin

Why throw our hands up in despair? The Irish language is on the verge of extinction; we’ve known all along, the death rattles have been deafening for a hundred years. In highlighting the rapid decline in the usage of the Irish language in the Gaeltacht areas, the authors of the recent report have also drawn into question the current Government’s level of commitment to the preservation of our language.

A friend of mine, language teacher from Germany, visiting Dublin asked to go somewhere where she could hear the language being used. I balked. The same difficulty applied to myself years ago, when as one of a group of sixteen year olds returning from the Irish language summer college, we agreed to have a reunion in Dublin; but where? Where is the centre for speakers of our language in our capital city?

2016 is a year of celebration; the question being asked is how best do we commemorate, not only the people and events of 1916, but our Irishness. I suggest that the finest and most practical gesture we can make is the establishment of a cultúrlann that, at one stroke, solves difficulties like those I’ve outlined and proclaims our commitment to the preservation of our Irish heritage. And we don’t have to reinvent the wheel, but look at the model that is Cultúrlann McAdam Ó Fiaich, just up the road in Belfast.

Coffee shop, theatre, art gallery, book-shop; a place that will encourage all who want to speak Irish, hear it spoken. A warm place, open all day and full of positivity towards the Irish language and culture. For now we need people with some imagination and a fondness for Irish in order to make a start.

With You

   

The fields, green with snow

under an apple blue sky; 

you, brimming

winter’s brightness, 

turning cartwheels;

your whole body grinning. 

The silver trees of our breathing

in full flower; 

my golden happiness

in being with you 

till the shafts of shadow

turned purple at sunset; 

       and our hours together

       colourless at parting.

Country Childhood

I was blessed to have a country childhood. The freedom to come and go without the constant monitoring for safety. We had the run of the town and surrounding countryside. I would like to think that it's still that way now, but probably not.



The Country Child.

 

The country child

runs in and out of rain showers

like rooms; 

sees the snake-patterns in trains,

the sun's sword-play in the hedges

and the confetti in falling elder blossoms; 

knows the humming in the telegraph poles

as the hedgerow's voice

when tar bubbles are ripe for bursting; 

watches bees emerge from the caverns

at the centres of buttercups,

feels no end to a daisy chain, 

feels no end to an afternoon;

                     walks on ice though it creaks;

sees fish among ripples and names them; 

is conversant with berries

and hides behind thorns;

slips down leaves, behind stones; 

fills his hands with the stream

and his hair with the smell of hay;

recognizes the chalkiness  

of the weathered bones of sheep,

the humour in a rusted fence,

the feel of the white beards that hang there. 

The country child

sees a mountain range where blue clouds

are heaped above the horizon,

 

sees a garden of diamonds

through a hole scraped

in the frost patterns of his bedroom window  

and sees yet another world

when tints of cerise and ochre

streak the evening sky. 

He knows no end, at night

he sneaks glimpses of Heaven

through the moth-eaten carpet of the sky.

Notice to children

The Aos Sí (Sídhe), the fairy folk of Ireland are alive and well and are living beneath the sídhe, fairy mounds dotted all around Ireland. They are reputed to be the Tuatha Dé Danann who retreated underground after defeat in battle by the Milesians.Though sometimes referred to as a beautiful race, and always ready to dance, they are also associated with carrying out a range of dastardly deeds,  particularly the stealing of babies, and sometimes people not so young.

 

Children’s Song 
                                     from Above Ground Below Ground
 

The piper’s notes come whistling clear,

as in the days of yore;

they leap and prance to the piper’s tune

as wildly as before. 
 

For still they dance, the fallen ones,

beneath earth’s prison door;

for still they dance, the fallen ones,

enraptured by the score. 
 

A child that plays among the stones

might tempt them from their lair

to substitute a grey-haired imp

for a boy with golden hair. 
 

For still they dance, the fallen ones,

in the heat of the molten core,

for still they dance, the fallen ones,

beneath our earthen floor. 
 

Now children who must pass the mound,

respect this ancient lore;

and when at last you curl to sleep

be sure you’ve locked the  door. 
 

For still they dance, the fallen ones,

to this endless encore;

for still they dance, the fallen ones,

and will for ever more.

 

 

 

Literary Competition for Writers with Roscommon Connection

New Roscommon Writing Award 2015 First Prize €500

Competition Rules

·        Entries, in English, on any theme, in any literary form, will be accepted.

·        The competition is open to anyone over 18. All entrants must have a connection with the county of Roscommon (born in, living in, currently working in, went to school in, etc).

·        Typed entries (handwritten entries cannot be accepted) must be no more than 500 words. Mark the number of words in your entry on the bottom of the page. Entries over the 500 word limit will be automatically disqualified.

·        Include your name, address and contact details, plus your connection to the county. Include these on a separate page, not on your entry.

·        There is no entry fee. All entries must be received by 30 August, 2015.

·        The competition will be adjudicated by Jessamine O Connor. The judge’s decision is final.

·        Post your entry to: NEW ROSCOMMON WRITING AWARD 2015, Roscommon Arts Office, Roscommon West Business Park, Circular Road, Roscommon. You may also email your entry to:  mmullins@roscommoncoco.ie. Title your email NEW ROSCOMMON WRITING AWARD 2015.

 

 

 

 

 

Alternative view

Globalisation has what it takes to destroy all but middle of the road. And, as wildlife becomes tamelife to be found only in zoos, imagination will shrivel to the shifting fads of fashion cheaply available on the high street. Increasingly the customs of the past appear eccentric and remote; disappearing with them are the minor chords of imagination.

 

Images from St Joseph's well near Miltown Malbay, Co. Clare.

 

 

 

 

Bird of Paradise

 

 

One of my abiding memories from a visit to the Skelligs, too many years ago now, is of gannets moving to and fro in the air between us and the islands. Of all the scenes I’ve ever witnessed, this was the most magical; it seemed we were approaching an enchanted place, a rock fallen from Paradise. Apart from the spectacular beauty of the spire-like Skellig Michael rearing heavenward out of the ocean, the gannets,  white scarves drifting on thermals, gleaming in sunlight, looked like mythical creatures freed from gilt cages to mesmerise any would be invaders.

To soar, shining, across the heavens is an image of divinity. To waft effortlessly is an attribute of a creature whose divinity is so ingrained that it is taken for granted.

I came across a gannet, its head disappearing into the sand, its wings broken like a wrecked ship, yet its beak still pristine like a perfectly forged dagger, and got a strong urge to write a poem about it. Not a very original idea: the pointlessness of vanity when all too soon our beautiful heads disappear into the soil.   

 

 

 

 

 

The Wake

1

When Katy Tyrell’s eyelids were closed,

they stopped the clock,

covered the mirror,

and she was waked. 

Entwined in her hands, a rosary beads,

‘Je suis L’imaculée conception’

was embroidered on her shroud;

everyone said she looked every inch a Cherokee.

2

 

After she was laid out, with the ticking stopped

and a sheet blocking the devil’s door, 

he said, “ Let’s sit down to a game.”

“Shuffle the cards, dale herself in.”  

“Lay’ve the window open

and mind, don’t step in her way”

Jane Clarke's collection 'The River'

I am delighted to hear that Jane Clarke's collection The River, published by Bloodaxe Books is now available and will be launched at four different locations around Ireland in the coming weeks.
Anne Enright will do the honours in Dublin, in Hodges Figgis on 24th June at 6.30 pm. Marie Heaney will launch the collection on the 26th June in Bridge Street Books, Wicklow; it will be launched on the 1st of August as part of the Boyle Arts Festival and in Charlie Byrne's Bookshop, Galway on Friday 14th August.
                     
                      You can learn more about Jane Clarke at her website: http://www.janeclarkepoetry.ie/ 

 

 

A tree is screaming,

the rocks have clapped hands over their ears;

a stream is stealing the silver

and a cave, aghast, has swallowed the moon.