SPRING.

Tags

birds, humans, swords. spring

SPRING.

I would tell you to put your ear to the ground

but you would say it is too cold

The birds hear it first

they are of course more in tune than us humans

with our ears clogged 

by traffic and digital fuss and constant

bombardment of mechanical sounds

its far away yet

but approaching bit by bit 

treading cautiously, stepping lightly

marching to an earthly beat

listen! can you hear it? 

then,

losing the run of itself

shooting madly exuberantly even 

all hell breaks loose as

up through the cold clay 

fierce and tiny  green swords

fight their way

en garde!

Look! the buds are breaking now

the grass is greener

the birds louder

are they snowdrops there?

and just when i think i can bear winter no more 

spring is here.

 

Planting tree’s

Tags

fruit tree's, snow, wind

Now that i want to plant trees

the sound of the wind is no longer enjoyable.

now that i want to plant tree’s

the thought of snow is intolerable

Now that i want to plant trees

the rain on the roof is annoying

bare rooted in the shed,

tai haku (great white cherry)

three apple a pear and a plum

Lie patiently waiting for a change

gentle rain is all i can allow now

followed by winter sun

Monets sky.

Tags

boats, Monet, rain, shelter, sky, west of Ireland

I thought I had come upon a painting as I rounded the corner and  the skies cleared.  The old boat on it’s last legs making a poignant picture and a good place to shelter too from the unexpected shower (When cycling in the west of Ireland, it’s always a good idea to keep an eye out for such places )

MONETS SKY

~

keeled over

on your knees

your days are done

you wait resigned

(as I wait out the passing shower)

for rust and rot

not an easy death

do you miss the water lapping at your bow?

but look how the sky is overhead

Monet! you could have painted this.

Instead

you touched the ancient beams in sympathy

and I shelter by your side

waiting for the rain to clear

~

The Map Reader.

Tags

bicycles, bog holes, google maps, ipods, mountains, ordnance survey maps

Am I repeating myself when I say,  I love to go exploring in the wilds of the west of ireland and would do so very irresponsibly. Just heading off where the wind takes me on my yellow bicycle, hauling it across bogs and ditches with only the sun and the mountains as my guide.

An odd time a friend will accompany me, a friend with a MAP! Oh how I laugh at his careful responsible ways

p.s this poem is NOT meant to rhyme, its suppose to be wild and irresponsible like its author. 

THE MAP READER.

Forget your cars and motorcycles.

Forget your google maps and ipods

and choose the quiet of a bicycle

Just head away..

Take a road, the smaller the better

(she tries to untie a gate but ends up lifting her bike over)..

‘lose yourself for goodness sake!

(she is standing wild haired on the top of a mountain)

‘where is your sense of adventure’

she cries,

(one foot now stuck in a bog hole).

How lovely to be wild and free

(there’s barbed wire caught around her wheel)

and carrying her bike across the lake

once more cries out

‘for goodness sake

get out the ordnance survey map’…

fin.

Swimming through clouds.

Tags

bicycles, calm lake, clouds, lakes, monsters

Once I cycled along the coast and turned off at a bridge and followed a small bog road which ended at this calm lake.

It was only after I had swum across it (and through these clouds) that I heard that a monster lurked in it’s depths! Who would have thought it? It looks such an innocent lake, though it does seem to be causing the clouds some confusion.

After my swim I sat for a while contemplating its calmness and jotted down this tiny piece of poetry, so simple it was hardly worth the jotting of, a poetical experiment so to speak.

 Sometimes

clouds

get confused

cumulus confusicus

~

Then I cycled home….

The Invitation

Tags

bicycles, fire, light, poetry, rain, tea, west of Ireland, writers

Sometimes the weather in the west of ireland does not entice you out initially. Those dark rain leaden skies are not a bicycle users best friend. But if you know there is a warm fire and a cup of tea at the end of your journey you might risk it and just look at that light! It would be a great pity to miss the beautiful light that such days bring.

(Sometimes my way of jotting down a piece of writing is to look at my photo and take it from there).

INVITATION TO A WRITER FRIEND

Will you come this way

your reluctant dog in tow

your black bike shuddering on the stoney road

I know the sky is uninviting

(would you rather stay at home)

but I have the fire lit and the tea poured.

reply:

Thank you for the invite

just getting on my bike

and I see the rain is easing

(would be a shame to miss the light) 

keep the fire burning

and the tea hot

see you in a while. 

Turf.

Tags

haiku, mountains, the yellow bicycle, turf

I love this photo. It is the epitome of my summers in the west of Ireland, spent exploring small boreens and never knowing where I will end up. (though never getting lost as the twelve pins are always there somewhere in the background). Here is a type of Haiku, not completely true to form. An Irish Haiku maybe;

Brown turf heaped messily

the yellow bicycle resting

and look beyond!

tidy mountains and a certain summer sky.

 

The hollowers (A short piece of prose)

Tags

camping, hills, hollows, kindness, springwells, storms, wind

              

                                                               We are the Hollowers,

The hollow people.

This does not mean that we are thoughtless or selfish or self centred, In fact we are the opposite.

Hollow people don’t just help other hollow people they also help Hill people and Shore people.

Being a hollow Person just means that during a certain time in the summer we have a tendency to spend time in hollows.

Now choosing a hollow is a serious matter and planning is much advised.

Afterall you don’t want to arrive and find your hollow already occupied.

That would lead to bad summer feelings.

Though I will say these feelings only last a short while as the summer hollow place is one of such wonder and healing that its hard to stay mad with someone for long.

I should also mention here that there are two hollow summer seasons.

One in june and one in august.

The june hollow time is good if you are seeking solitude for writing and painting,

The august is busier and better for families with young children.

For hollow children love the company of other children.

And then there are those who have the luxury of being able to get down for both sessions.

Over the long winter months during the many large family get togethers the talk goes something like this.

‘What Hollow time will you be down for this summer’ ?

If the answer is august the next query is:

‘And which Hollow would you like this year?.

‘I don’t really mind, I’m happy with which ever one is free’  The less assertive of us will reply,

Usually those with small children will, if their children can swim, request to be in a hollow nearest to the beach where they can keep an eye on them.

Or if they can’t swim, then a hollow a bit further off might suit better so the little ones won’t be constantly running into the water and having to be hauled out half drowned.

Though the belief is, that left to their own devices they will quickly learn to swim as a matter of self preservation.

After all this is how we learnt when we were young hollowers.

My eldest sister Hestia always requests the hollow near the spring well.

She has, over the years, become the main tea and coffee maker (taking over the role from my mother who is now too old and not flexible enough to come hollowing) and needs a brisk supply of cool clean water, both to make the tea and coffee with and for washing up after.

The spring well is a secret well known initially only to us but we have shared our knowledge with the hill people, for sharing is much encouraged in this place of many hollow’s.

And some hills

My middle sister, Athena likes the deep hollow as her tent is rather high and is more at risk of getting flattened in a north atlantic squall and needs all the protection it can get.

And I, Psamathe? well I have the luxury of a small camper, turquoise to match the sea and painted with pink cherry blossoms, as though I had driven through an orchard of them.

In reality I don’t need a hollow as my van can withstand the fiercest of storms and I will admit enjoying lying inside it at night and being lulled to sleep by the buffeting and battering of the wind.

But I still love the coziness of a hollow and usually choose the large one looking out to the second beach and over to the islands.

This is not a selfish choice of hollow as no tent could withstand the wind that comes funnelling up it when it veers to the northwest.

There are more of us.

My brothers, Poseidon, Hydros. Palaemon and their wives and children and my other sisters Aura, Artemis. Persephone and their husbands and children.

And then there are the hill people, a newer folk who have blended in well with us and join our feasting on mackerel and mussels

They are happier on a hill with a view.

Usually male and single with smaller tents and no fear of the winds, they canoe and sail a lot and sit and watch the sea from a height.

(Personally I think they are afraid of capture and want to be able to make a quick getaway if needs be.  Persephone has quite a flirtatious way about her but she can also be quite scarey)

‘But what do hollow people DO all day’?  I hear you ask

Well basically we just spend time doing what hollowers do best. i.e We visit each other and sit, chat, drink tea or coffee.

If the day is nice we walk, fish, pick mussels, swim. visit the hill people.

If it’s raining we huddle in our hollows and read and write and snooze.

Next week: A hollower learns a lesson.

Hollow people feasting,                                                                                                                                                                                The yellow bike on a hill in search of a hollow. 

A day in november.

Tags

almonds, cancer, dying, guitar, illness, Leo Brower, love, poetry, pomegranates, Rumi

Sometimes things have happened  in my journey through life that I didn’t plan for and, though these occurrences may be frightening at the time, I cannot see them as ‘bad’ because with them comes something or someone good.

Once upon a time

when I was very ill,

Or should that be

once upon a time

when I thought I was going to die.

A man came into my life

and these were the words he said to me

yes

 these were his very words:

He said……

‘I cannot believe that someone who looks as healthy as a trout,

I cannot believe that someone who is as fizzy as an alka seltzer

is going to die today or tomorrow

or anytime soon.

And he sat on my bed

(I was sick remember)

and pulled his guitar across his knee

and played

‘Un dia en noviembre’

by Leo Brower

and he read me poems by Rumi

and he brought me croissants for breakfast

and made me cakes from honey and almonds and pomegranates

to build up my strenght and take the taste of the cancer treatment from my tongue

So

I decided I could be as healthy as a trout and as fizzy as an alka seltzer

today or tomorrow

or sometime soon

and

instead of dying

I got better and I began write and paint again

and he (his job now done) went away.

the end.

Nine bean row’s etc……

The woman on the Yellow Bicycle

I like the pitch of your green corrugated roof.

Your pink painted doors catch my eye.

You would suit me fine (if I could break out a window here or there),

let some light in, on my writing table.

Hens out front I think.

Barnevelders (double laced) welsummers or Faverolles,

good layers.

calm and heavy,

no escape artists please.

(Those polish bantams are the limit)

I’ll be too busy writing to chase you lot down some boithrin.

Yeat’s nine bean rows I’ll have here,

and a hive for that bee.

Two apple tree’s, one pear,

A cherry too?

maybe.

A single row of spuds?

definitely.

(more if my back is able).

and speaking of backs, behind the house theres a fine space

for a milking goat.

Winter!

I would lay the fire from broken branches,

and maybe a sod or two of turf.

(Once when camping in a wild place someone…

View original post 105 more words

Wintertime wishing.

Tags

Ben bulben, dreams, Glencar, goats, hens, poems, trees lakes, vegetable gardens., WBYeats

At one point in my life, I lived for a number of years under W.B Yeats’s ‘ bare Ben Bulben’s head’  by Glencar lake, where I spent days exploring ‘where the wandering water gushes from the hills above glen car, in pools among the rushes that scarce could bath a star’  http://www.online-literature.com/yeats/816/

Then through a series of occurrences (and what is life but such a journey) I moved away but never lost my dream of owning once again a small white cottage under a mountain or by a river or the sea, or down a small boirin…..Cycling around the countryside on my yellow bicycle, I am always on the look out for old cottages and wishing and dreaming………..

*

I dreamt last night of a small white house

with a willow tree down by a stream.

where I would kneel among moss covered rocks

and scoop my hands and drink my fill,

**

I dreamt there was a small square field

behind the house beyond the tree

A milking goat and two speckled hens

and a hawthorn hedge to keep them in.

***

I dreamt there were three apple trees

In front of the house by the garden gate

a vegetable patch and some raspberry canes

and hives full of honey bee’s.

****

I dreamt my love had a boat at sea

and I would wait with the fire well lit

and he’d row home on the cold dark nights

and we would feast on fish.

*****

I have not finished this poem, nor do I intend to. I think the next verse would oblige me to wake from it and I would like to keep my dream alive.

.A christmas Tale (Warning this story contains images of a violent nature)

Tags

children, christmas, Cluedo, dogs, In laws, Italians, rabbits

Ok

so christmas has passed without incident,

though we still have to run the gauntlet and visit my mother .

Where my sisters italian in laws

who speak no english

are staying

I hear they had roast rabbit on christmas day

smuggled through customs in a suitcase

(A sweet little elderly Italian woman can get away with anything it seems)

In my mothers kitchen however

It’s a different story.

Not so sweet

Italian Antoinetta raises the rolling pin and brings it down with all her might

On the rabbit

My sister flinches

(my father didn’t build a house to withstand such violence)

‘Devo tenera che’ (I must tenderize it)

Antoinetta smiles up at her audience innocently

and proceeds to lambaste the poor creature to an inch of its life…

My mother holding the kitchen table steady, looks on in horror

I hear it tasted divine…

Very tender My mother said guiltily

though I’m sure my sister who cannot bear to lay a mouse trap

found it hard to swallow.

But

Christmas at my daughters house

was less gruesome

a pleasant time with family and dogs,

walks by the sea

country living

food and wine

more than the body can bear

and paper hats and presents

oh and crackers to pull.

and children rolling on the floor

and dogs allowed on the sofa

I lit the plum pudding without casualties.

After dinner to give our bellies a chance

we played cluedo *

(Was it you miss plum who committed the murder with the dagger in the conservatory)?

Oh dear and she seemed so pleasant

so innocent.

One can never tell by appearances…….

*CLUEDO: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cluedo.

The christmas Fox.

Tags

children, christmas, foxes, turkey

This morning I am up at cockcrow, not unusual for me because being a nurse in my conventional life, I am used to it and find it hard to sleep on. Years and years of getting up at five thirty and cycling to the station for the train are embedded in my brain.

Often on those still dark mornings I meet the fox, a silent shape trotting confidently past my moving bicycle, so close I could touch her, We do not greet each other in human terms but nod silently in respect, both understanding the need to be out early to earn our daily crust.

Six am

All is calm

All is bright.

The childly houses

(though maybe not so calm)

are lit by christmas tree’s.

small figures and drowsy parents

silhouetted against  the curtains

the family dog, let out on the lawn, is sniffing foxy smells,

growling at the undergrowth

peeing on the leafless thorny rose beds

the front door opens

light escapes and rushes down the cobbled drive way

come in Fido/Jessy/Milly

the light retreats

And millys capering form now joins the flying wrapping paper

and leaping children.

all other houses are still in darkness.

a car lights on the roundabout

(a nurse maybe)

the one who drew the short straw or was off  last christmas and whose turn it is to wear a christmas hat and bring good cheer to the sick.

it could have been me.

old habits die hard

thats why I’m up this early

and catch the familiar shape of a skinny fox trotting fearlessly, silently down the empty road

tonight after the fun and games

I’ll leave the turkey carcass out

for her.

The Moon and The Mountain.

Tags

moon, mountains, poetry

Sitting at my writing table, I look across at the Sugarloaf mountain. I spend a lot of time just sitting gazing at her. I call her ‘My Lady Sugar Loaf’. She is constantly changing. Sometimes she hides her face, sometimes her whole self, in shawl of mists or clouds. When there is a moon it slides across and disappears down behind her. But I can never quite catch that moment. I always get the feeling that they are in ‘cahoots’ .

The Moon, The Moon

Where are you hiding,

I saw you there a minute ago

You were lurking

by my lady Sugar loaf,

In the instant I took to make my coffee ,

(while my back was turned)

you whispered to her

then

slid guiltily away

Now she shyly

pulls her pink clouded shawl about her head.

Never fear.

I will wait

and catch you tomorrow

in the act.

Ode to a slighted mermaid.

Tags

dolphins, fishermen, love, mermaids, night, sea

I often go swimming at night when everyone else has gone to bed. The water seems silkier then and if the night is clear it is wondrous to float and look up at the stars.

I sometimes get the feeling though, that the creatures of the sea could easily capture me and take me down into their world.

The world of mermaids and neptune. Here is a poem that came to mind one night when I lay floating among the seaweed fronds and rock pools of the a small bay.

I am much taken by melodramatic medieval ballad type poetry….

Last night I left my lovers bed

And walked sadly home along the shore

But on the way the darkened sea

called out my name

and I instinctively

could not resist his charms,

 and stumbling blindly with unshed tears

fell into his silken arms

and was swept away.

and  slowly sank into the deep.

My naked limbs with seaweed round entwined

 my hair like seaweed floating out behind

 captivated by his enchanted snare,

(my bruised and broken heart beyond repair).

And on and on into that deep

where seals and dolphins in their caverns sleep

and mermaids rest their weary heads

and starfish spread their stars

and blue rayed limpets make their beds

and I no longer caring

And in the morning light

along the shore

a lonely fisherman

once more lays out his nets

and picking welks and such

comes upon a naked figure lying there

whose limb-like tail with seaweed was entwined

and skin the color of the sky

and seaweed tangled in her hair.

and kneeling by her side

he gently closed her eyes and covered her with care

and kissed her cold cold lips

and smoothed back her sea washed hair.