Dolphins Danced That Day

This poem is in memory of Martin Colfer. Skipper of the Rebecca C, who often took me out to search for the whales off the Hook Head in County Wexford.  The video was shot at a reading of this in The Troubadour London, during an evening organised by Coffee House Poetry.

 

 

Dolphins danced in the harbour that day

 

in memoriam Martin Colfer, Skipper of the Rebecca C

 

They were good, those days together, easy

sailing, easy talking, easy in each

others company.  He taught me how to

watch at sea for birds circling, then diving.

He showed me the seals spying on us,

the dolphins playing games around the boat,

then, wonder of wonders, we would reach where

we had seen the great whales blow.  At times we

would come so close we could hear their very

breathing.  Together we saw mighty Fin

Whales, majestic Humpbacks, playful passing

Minke.  Once, sailing from our own harbour

at Duncannon we set a Northward course

to Ballyhack he gave me the tiller

to hold her steady while he cleared space

for photographers, waiting for their chance

to see the sights that we had often seen.

It happened then we went through pods of

Dolphins swimming in families of three.

At one hundred we stopped our counting.

Small wonder so that the day they buried

him in the graveyard overlooking the bay

the dolphins danced in the water, plain

enough then, that all who mourned could see.

A Sonnet For Chagall

 

 

Sonnet for Chagall

These mine eyes are the windows of my soul,

where you may think inside of me you look,

therein reading me as an open book,

in gazing outward lies my own true role.

 

Let me instead show you what then I see

when brushing clear old glass, old dust, old grime,

peering closely through layers left by time,

my village returns in pale broken light to me.

 

The splintered glass gives splintered view,

kaleidoscopic beasts both large and small

loom close, they share our lives with them

as crosses do, not one so high, but two,

side by side houses stand while people call,

splintered self remembering again.

 

note: all images used in this are in the public domain

Evening stroll, Old Town, Chania, Crete

Evening stroll, Old Town, Chania, Crete

 

He was a gentleman, holding us but

a moment, smiling in simple delight

at chatting again with some visitors

to the old quarters of the Cretan town,

his, obviously, wrapped around him like

the warm clothes he wore as a shield

against the mild Spring night.

 

He said, “this was little Jerusalem

before the war.  Lovely people, kind

to the children, like me, playing

on these streets, often gave us sweets,”

pausing, “there’s not many left now.”

 

He asked us where we were from, was it cold

when we left, did we have much snow?  He heard

it was a land that was wonderfully green, except

when it snowed.  Was it true it often rained?

 

We parted then, went our separate ways.

Strolling those same lanes again, a bright,

gloriously sunny day, we could see signs

above a handful of doorways, realising

then it was Passover.

5th Avenue Haiku

Haiku inspired by two old ladies strolling along Fifth Avenue ,New York City, incorporating a commentary on our times and a measured response to the politics of President Trump

 

“Wouldn’t you think they

would take his Twitter away?”

“I know!  It’s simple.”

 

 

For those who love books, part one

At the Library, New Ross

From my window desk, perched

high above the grey slated gables

I pause for thought, seeing spires

rising above the town, my view

tumbles towards two great rivers,

joined now as one, gliding gently

through.

 

I came to write peacefully,

to avoid distractions,

the well-known, oft cursed,

enemy of poets and writers.

 

Yet how can I ignore young birches

as Autumn colours grace their leaves

while they cradle in their golden grove

an amphitheater crying out for a voice

to proclaim aloud sheer joy that I live

near such a scribbler’s sanctuary?

 

The trees tremble as a soft breeze

flutters leaves, then wafts me back to

work where the very blood of words,

fresh ink, flows.

 

 

 Ó   Kevin Connelly 2018

A wonderful evening at the Old Forge on The New Line Road, County Wexford. People gather and share music, tales, poetry, tea, coffee and sandwiches. I hope to post some video from this shortly so keep an eye out. Also, St Brigid’s Day, 1st February, is nigh. That is the first day of Spring by Irish reckoning and is the date of the Ancient Celtic Festival of Imbolc. I will have special work posted for that day. Looking forward to a good years blogging in 2018.

The Old People Said

The old people said… 

 

illness runs in families.

They knew who was likely

to have heart or lung disease,

who might yet be afflicted.

 

The old people said…

when someone had an operation

things often became worse,

as if the body being opened

the cure became the problem.

 

The old people said…

the time would come

when you wouldn’t

know the seasons

but by the leaves on the trees.

 

The old people said…

these things and more

and I didn’t believe them, because I was young

and I didn’t believe them, because they were old,

but now they are gone and I am older,

now I understand what the old people meant

when they said illness runs in families,

when they said the cure by times becomes the problem,

when they said the seasons would only be known

by leaves on the trees.

 

Now I know the wisdom

in their words when

the old people said…

 Tintern woods20171

Visiting Parks

3 Public Parks, USA

 

On Boston Common the squirrels

are shy, darting away, barely visible,

ready to ambush the Redcoats,

should they dare to return.

 

Around Central Park the squirrels

are such exhibitionists.  They

prance, peer, pose precociously.

Aerial antics delight their audience.

 

In Washington Square the squirrels

are quite simply, laid back.  Stretched

out on branches they listen to the music,

basking lazily to the busker’s beat.

 

Much too soon there were no more seen,

the time had come to leave for home.

After all you know what they say,

“Three squirrels and you’re out!”

 

 

 

 

K Connelly, Midtown Manhattan July 4th 2017

Old Scars

Old scars

Dead men tell no tales

but old scars do.

Each one begins in violence

then settles over time

into another forgotten one.

Scattered around out of sight

some of them, others not

really invisible, more

likely so familiar

as to be unnoticed,

almost unseen.

 

There are times when some flare

to life.  Time heals

it is true, but

changing times, if for the worse,

can revive old weals,

as arthritis in bad weather

becomes again a curse.

 

I hear that old crackling creak

getting to my feet, finding the remote,

switching off the sound

of an election debate,

silencing those damned old scars

never quite gone away for good,

once and for all.

 

%d bloggers like this: