Our Violets

so shy, always so beautiful,

Our violets,

like our Herb Roberts and Primroses,

bonny Bluebells and Celandines

puzzled by strange climes, poor flowers,

Our Violets.

He thought the night was just beginning.

There had been lights, bright, welcoming.  There had been voices calling him.  Men’s voices were steady and strong, clearly heard, calling to him across crowded rooms.  Women’s voices were warm and smooth, flowing towards him like fine wine sliding down the sides of cut crystal glasses.

Little wonder then that he thought this would last forever, that the night was just beginning.

He slapped backs while his was slapped in turn.  He laughed at humour only half heard, enjoying all the while the camaraderie, the feeling of one.  The company pleased him.

She stood apart in some way he couldn’t quite understand.  It was n’t as if she was silent, not as if she wasn’t part of the continually changing crowd.  When there were surges of crowds coming and going she was still there.  When there were side shows of romantic endeavours forming, she was still there.  In the midst of swirling streams of free flowing speech, she was still there.  He was attracted to such stillness, apparently self-sufficient calm.

All the time she smiled, nodding in an attentive way, listening, speaking, engaging.

He liked what he saw, was intrigued by what he heard.

After some more drinks, when he bought her one, when she had accepted, they were chatting.

It may have been aimless, idle, light and harmless, but it was conversation.  It was easy he felt, it was definitely good.  When she smiled he smiled in return.  When he smiled she too smiled in reply.

He thought the night was just beginning.

She knew the night was over an hour before.

The Azores High, a spoken version

The Azores High

Here is the latest weather forecast:

A large area of high pressure remains settled

from south of the Azores to the north of Scotland.

Over the coming week it is expected this will bring…

widespread outbreaks of shorts,

socks and sandals,

frequently together.

These will be visible

in all areas, at close range,

from early mornings onwards.

Hot sands on beaches

have led to reported

infestations

of ice-cream vans,

accompanied by long queues

of children, of all ages.

High temperatures,

along with prolonged sunshine,

will lead to the appearance

of pink flesh,

turning later to various

shades of red.

It is expected that showers

of high factor sun cream

will be applied, too late

Clouds of charcoal smoke

can be seen here,

there, indeed, everywhere.

The Health Services have issued

warnings about food poisoning,

sun-stroke, heat exhaustion,

even shortages of straw hats.

It is believed these

will be largely ignored.

The Automobile Association

say that long lines

of cars will be slow moving,

both morning and evening,

on previously deserted roads

leading to all coastal areas.

Along with this

there will be endless cries of

“are we there yet!”

The Met Office regrets

they know of no

answer to that one.

Older people will wonder aloud

why must young people

behave in ways

they have long forgotten

they also did,

when young themselves.

Younger people will wonder quietly

why must old people

behave in ways

that lead to pale

hairy ankles

at the very water’s edge.

Mothers will drink

chilled chardonnay

with other mothers.

Teenage daughters will silently cry,

“doesn’t she know that swimsuit

is, like, so totally OMG!”

Fathers will play ball games again

certain they really should

have turned pro that time.

Teenage sons will wrestle

each other to impress

seemingly indifferent girls.

Young children will ignore them all,

concentrating instead

on their collective task,

moving tons of sand about,

knowing that this weather

is sure to last forever.

A poetry slam in Wexford Arts Centre on Saturday night will feature poets from Ireland and Wales.

It is part of a developing project to foster poetic links between two countries with such ancient bardic traditions.  This could be a beautiful beginning, see you there!!

This being vain about our times

is surely now a vice,

where before it became a curse.

Imagination, memory, forsaken

denial triumphs.

A catastrophe of the age,

this reckless assumption

that now is surely

the best of times,

history finally ended.

All of now,

thus made righteous,

these being unlike

any other times.

No illusion this,

to blind us.

No bubble this

to ever burst.

Our centurions will forever

guard our walls,

ever watchful for the

return of the barbarians

without,

secure in the knowledge

there are none

within.

Activities Overview Three

Now seems a good time to update this section of my blog.  I write this in early May 2013. The whole blog project gestated for a long time then finally launched  in late April 2011.  Since my last update I have been, thankfully, both productive and busy.  I appreciate the time given to me at this stage of the life-span to write, in all it’s forms.  I have so much I want to achieve that there are times the day is not long enough.  I haven’t taken to getting up in the middle of the night to write, yet!!!

I continue working on all the forms of writing I practice, poetry, fiction, prose.  Over the last few months I have started writing new novels.  I find I love this work, the challenge of writing a coherent, readable story  is exciting.  I have stopped neglecting  my Walking the South East section of this blog, some posts from that will be ready soon. There is a possibility it may be e-published, I believe it is an appropriate format for that work.

Readings in public I love.  I cannot explain it fully because every time I read, “something” comes over me and it is as if I take off into another zone, another persona.  I also appreciate hugely the immediacy of audience response when reading in public.  It has a way of modifying my own feelings towards my own work.  I am always grateful to my listeners for that.

Twice lately I had the privilege of recognition for what I do.

Boyne Berries magazine in County Meath published “Notice that.”

“Layla” was a prize winner in the Irish Section of The Frances Browne Multilingual Poetry Competition based in County Donegal.

“Beyond Ailsa Craig” was Highly Commended in the English Section of the same competition.

There are a number of other works pending publication, more news to follow on that front.

I am always grateful to all the people who follow and read and comment on my work here.  It can be a lonely business writing and I feel your presence and thank you for taking the time to read what I write.  I am frequently astonished by the reach of this blog via the wonders of our modern age.  Since my hosts, Word Press, started giving their authors an analysis by country of our visitors the results have been truly remarkable. This blog has been visited by readers from over 70 different countries, literally from Australia to Zimbabwe.  Thank you one and all, keep reading, your friend,

Kevin.

Revelations, a sonnet

Slowly most arrive, others not quite so,

rarely seen, that sudden flash of light;

more often our knowing takes time to grow

before the curtain parts, before dark nights

become then clear as brightest of all days.

Sailing by, walking on, dancing through,

chosen from various offered ways,

never to return, nothing there to rue.

Clearer vision then leads to clearer choice,

moments of insight, filled with wonder

can be heralded by a simple voice.

Seldom darkest clouds are rent asunder.

Oftentimes I heard simple sweet bird song

that at evening sings alone and strong.

No more than the following fragments were ever found, as if a tiny piece of pottery must needs reveal to us the whole.

…so they would be safe.  However, as we think it will be is not always how it transpires.  More was expected of him, being older.  Strange then that such foolishness came from him, not from her.

She could see all the dangers, the perils behind them illuminated for her the dangers in the ways forward.

The whirlpool of passionate love swallowed her in deep.  Such reason as she at first tried to apply was soon swept away.  Together they would go wherever, do whatever, escape however.  Together they would be, forever.

In their time of troubles, in the making of them, she was not entirely innocent.  Jealous gossips later said it was pride in her own great beauty drove her to such extremes.  No woman they said, could be so unaware of her own beauty as to be senseless of it’s effects on others, no woman…

…strange how none of the jealous gossips who speak in such vicious tones are never troubled by the burdens of beauty themselves.

It was a small enough world they lived in, you could only hide in it for so long.  They never spoke of a first meeting.  Did their overwhelming love grow slowly, a great blaze from a tiny spark?  Was it perhaps a sudden light, flaring in blinding brightness through the dark night? They never said before the time came when they could no longer say.

The same gossip, oftentimes the same gossips, who were so critical of her unquestioned loveliness, were their ultimate undoing.  That is the way, the path of gossip.  Once the tales, the whispers, are unleashed they can never be unsaid.

Long years ago a wise teacher told me that if  you wished to retrieve words spoken you might as well take a pillow filled with the finest of feathers to the top of the highest mountain you could see.  There you must shake loose the feathers, turning all the while to the four corners of the world.  Repairing the damage of ill-chosen words was as easy as gathering once again each and every feather and restoring it to it’s place in the pillow.

Soon the lovers had more to contend with than words.  One day in the narrowest of lanes leading into the Great Market a clay flowerpot fell from on high.  He was lucky.  A full blow on the head from that and no surgeon, no matter how skilled, could save him.  As it was the pot hit a ledge on the sudden downward flight and fragments flew everywhere.

His scars were simply added to yet again.  The malicious gossips commenting on his ugliness compared to her much maligned beauty now had even more to say.

It did not help their cause that that one tiny fragment flew away from him, towards an old storyteller, the lane being that of the scribes, storytellers and singers.  A storyteller can be a dangerous enemy at the best of times.  One who has lost the sight of an eye, blinded by a projectile meant for another, could be a terrible source of trouble indeed.

Tellers of tales can tease the truth to torment others.  That he may have stepped into the lane from his lair of manuscripts to ponder the man of scandal passing by possibly rendered his cup of bitterness even more galling.

They say that the strange day was not finished then, they say that…

(The manuscript is unclear here, I have left out some pieces I cannot understand, dear Reader forgive me)

The lanes of the clothing for women were some distance away, at the far side of the Great Market.  This led on directly to the Quays.  Inside one of the finest shops in the best part of the lane of the finest women’s clothes she waited to try on something new.

The owner, an older woman who wisely presented herself plainly to her customers, helped her in her choosing.  In her plainness the woman of the shop supported the faith of her customers in their own beauty.  Alone, when evening had come, when the doors and shutters were firmly closed, the candles lit, she had the choice of all she showed to others during the day.  All the wonderful colours, fabrics, dyes, scents, powders, jewels, sandals, shoes were hers to choose.  it was the and only then, she would reveal to herself and her many mirrors the truth of her own loveliness.

With her customers she gave pride of place to them, by false praise she lined her pockets, all the while attracting no attention, or jealousy, to herself.

That day the woman in love, in exhilarating, disapproved, scandalous love, glowed with the inner beauty of all women in the first flushes of the blinding light of love.  Truly, she needed no further enhancements, no more adornments.  Yet she could not resist the allure of the fine materials the woman of the shop laid out for her.

It was the older woman who picked out clothes she could try.  These were such that her customer must needs disrobe.  Stepping behind some curtains she removed her street clothes and reached her hand through to receive the chosen garments.

To her utmost horror, as she did so, the flimsy rail supporting the curtains seemed to collapse of it’s own accord.  There she was exposed, her beauty momentarily naked, unadorned.

Stranger still, even more horrifying, she caught a glimpse of a silent knot of people, women and men alike, standing around the door and the little windows.  Somehow items previously displayed on the window ledge had vanished, making the interior even more visible.

She turned her back in confusion as the woman of the shop covered her in apologies and curtains.

The image of silent figures with burning hostile eyes almost glowing in the darkness of the lane was seared in her memory.  When she could turn again they were gone, as mysteriously vanished as they had arrived.

Some say it was that very day the lovers first made their desperate plans.  Who can say?  Certainly they cannot.  It is known for certain that they were seen later beyond the lanes and narrow streets leading from the Great Market.  Far out on the Breakwater they were seen walking together.  Almost at the end they seemed to spend a long time looking out across the waves, beyond the fishing boats, far beyond the great swirling masses of white birds drifting up and down the coast.

Then, for a time, they were not seen or heard of again.  It cannot be said they were not spoken of during that time.  For sure it was not anything like the storm of stories, songs, tales  and so on that flowed later.  It could not have been, not then.

Even during that quiet time they were still spoken of but it was along with all the other affairs with which people were concerned.  The price of food, the movements of ships, the unpredictable nature of weather, the luck and otherwise of gamblers, births, deaths illnesses, these all occupied peoples thoughts and words.  In that time the two lovers were just one among many other concerns, for that little while.

Then they were gone.  One morning they were gone, no-one knew when but crowds streamed towards the quays where the cut ropes that had fastened tight one of the boats were held up as further proof f their treachery.

It wasn’t long before other boats were made ready, there was no shortage of people to take part in the pursuit.  Swiftly the best were chosen, the boats launched, the chase begun.  There was no doubt now as to the outcome and what the terrible future would bring to them upon their return.

Surely, all thought, they had no chance…

(At this point the manuscript finally ends.  Other than some faint drawings we know no more.)