My house is a box;
I move from bed to table to television and back,
bed to table to television and back.
From above I am a mouse scuttling;
stopping starting fidgeting nibbling sleeping.
From further up an ant.
The greater the distance, the more inexplicable
the behavior;
more’s the pity we don’t see ourselves from a height.
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| Sorolla - The Siesta |
When we lay there, our bodies were grass,
a sea of meadow, the sweep of wind carrying
us along, flowers of rye. We, the droning
bumble bees in buttercups; we, the chirruping
finches, chomping cattle; darting suddenly
within briary hedgerows, rustlings, commotions
and hunters’ silences; and only vaguely conscious
of the faraway cataracts of traffic.
How sumptuous the flow of light and warmth;
how sinuous our bodies in that current,
the colours of the field embroidering our bodies.
We, agglomerations of the soil; we, the criss-crossing
zeniths of nerve and muscle: the fields risen on legs
now part of the swathes of breeze-blown beauty,
settled, nested into our finest belonging.
The countries of the world are passing over;
seas in sunlight; streamers of islands, far-off volcanic chains
stippled on a serene blue ocean, archipelagos for dreamers;
cumulus snow-covered mountains are towering himalayan
at the edge of my world west and south; burren-coloured foreboding
the continents north and east. My eyes, ships, have travelled
all the world and other worlds; seen more wonders
than all the explorers and all the travellers of myth and legend:
shimmering mountain ranges, the light emitting from within them;
grotesque creatures that evolve as you watch; unimaginable
monsters risen from the deep or birthed from the ribs of the land.
I have seen great curtains hanging from the heavens,
obscuring all of America, and when they’ve cleared
I have seen the fingers of God spread across the universe.
I have seen misty Kyoto on the Donegal hills where sometimes
there’s been nothing, the whole planet obliterated, a void.
All of this is my way of saying, whatever about plane, boat or car,
a seat by a window is a magical ride.
Youthful beauty:
what a treasure that was,
like snow.
Settled on your face,
extended wings a moment,
then flew.
The skin, slackened
on your bones,
took the shape your humours.
In the end
life detaches itself from dreams;
then beauty is pointless.
Bluebells
in memory of Peter 1929 ‒ 2021
We had watched the bluebells arriving
in ones and twos, clusters then crowds;
their lights switching on like houses
on the hillside settling in for the night.
We’d watched the blue covers extending
down the fields, and the Castle Caldwell trees
bathing ankle-deep in those waves.
We filled our eyes with the beauty,
harvesting it for thinner days;
the day the brilliant blue light dimmed on the hillside
was the day it went from your eyes.
We stopped the car to see it quenched
like a plantation felled or the bay’s muddy floor at neap tide,
and thanked God the granaries of our memories were overflowing.
swathes of bluebells,
setting rain and sunlight
ringing
or, perhaps,
languorous lanterns
spilling moonlit midnight
onto the ocean floor
or
thoughts
bubbling through
the fresh green moss
of toddlers’ imaginations
or
those souls
whose light
must wait
for yet another year.
You were screaming.
I looked inside,
a child
was using the cavern of your mouth.
Her agitation,
its minuteness
caused laughter;
she was convulsed with that frustration.
No one wanted to see
your mouth,
the red raw wound;
no one wanted to look inside.
You screamed.
His gentleness now stone;
she, her love, a tree;
the bark climbed her body
till, finally, her eyes were shut;
he and his anger now a flower;
her generosity a shell.
And so it goes
till all is turned.
I remember her arms:
now blades of grass.
If only we had known,
but how could we, that was then.
Sometimes you come
from what is now a long time ago,
and you are smiling;
that was a different world,
and your smile belongs to then.
But it is no coincidence
my remembering on the first of June
when the fields are a flood of lush green growth,
the hedgerows a celebration in whitethorn,
a lively champagne or, perhaps, unrestrained happiness.
Stand where you are,
absorb the view;
a full life, fully lived,
is a regarded life.
Otherwise it passes
like a train; waved at,
saying goodbye
even as it arrives.
I cannot tell the difference between fire and
ice nor love and hate when I am with you;
I suspect there’s none. All is passion, life a
storm, and in that storm, I am tossed, battered
and reawakened over and over to you, life, lover.
Today seeds claimed the city.
Millions, perhaps billions, drifted
through the streets like an alien invasion.
Nonchalantly they floated past pedestrians
and traffic, heading eastward towards,
perhaps, some pre-ordained location.
Each achene, purposeful, carrying its seed
under a sunlit pappus as though returning
a nature forgotten through the ages;
reminding us too, that, in time,
they will return to demolish the city,
to recolonize, restore.
I touch the surface; it touches me, my finger.
The worry of water passes through me as laughter;
the whole world convulses and becomes still again.
And now I am aware of the world below,
the depth, the increasing murk, the blackness;
that otherness beneath my shimmering self.
In that sky I must be no more than a cloud;
remember the delicacy of this touch
and the eyes that watch my boat’s hull passing.
Recently I had a query, ‘Anyone have a copy of a poem by Fr Leo Muldoon published in 1952/53 called the Desecration of Barnesmore Gap?’ arrive into the blog. I passed the question on to my neighbour, Kate Slevin, and she very kindly came back with the following information which I hope will be a help to my correspondent.
Yes, the poem is supposedly about the installation of the pylons there.
1.
There is a poem written by L Mullen in 1911 but not sure if the L is for Leo. Part of the poem is as follows....
‘You’ll search in vain on any map
From China to Paris
To find the peer of Barnes Gap
The pride of Old Tyrhugh;
Where Nature’s beauty thrills the soul
And ravishes the mind
Where grand majestic is the whole
Unscathed by age or wind’
2.
Another poem which I found on google books by Leo Muldoon... published 1961 in one of the Donegal/Derry newspapers, don’t know which one.
“It’s discussed around the fire,
And it’s talked of round the town,
Sure the customers in Biddys
Mix it with their drinks going down....”
An enquiry to those papers might uncover something.
3.
I think Fr Muldoon was Parish Priest in Hamilton, Scotland.
4.
There is a Barnes Gap in Creeslough, another outside Strabane but most likely it’s down the road from us. There are pylons in all three areas...
5.
There’s a Historical Society in Ballybofey and Stranorlar, link below,
(https://www.finnvalleyhistory.com) and also in Frosses. An enquiry could be sent to them.
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| Barnesmore Gap beyond Lough Mourne © Kate Slevin |
And this gives me the perfect opportunity to mention Kate’s website, Kate Slevin Photography at <www.kateslevinphotography.com>
also her Facebook page at <https://www.facebook.com/kateslevinphotography/>.
Co. Donegal is a county of extraordinary beauty, still unspoiled and, for the most, part non-commercialised. Its coast, pounded by the Atlantic is carved into spectacular cliffs, headlands and bays or pulverised into magnificent beaches, swathes of pristine sandy shoreline that gleam in the sun. Inland the county is a glorious mix of mountain, lake, river and pastureland.
Photogenic doesn’t cover it. Its special magic comes from its ever-changing skies, the unpredictable light that comes with that, the colours vibrant or muted as the clouds or the time of day dictate. No one has captured the moods and the ever changing beauty, allure, of Donegal as successfully as Kate. Her love of the landscape is palpable in all her images, the care she takes in conveying the best of Donegal is clear for all to see. Take a look at the Barnesmore series: with artist’s eye and commitment she brings her homeplace to you in all its varying guises; the sort of attention Cézanne brought to Mont Sainte-Victoire or Monet his garden.
Think I’m exaggerating? Discover here Donegal in all its grandeur. <www.kateslevinphotography.com>
