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

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

WISPA to Wales2

kings head lampeterWISPA tour of Wales, March 2014, part two.

The evening in the Kings Head, Lampeter, was a chance for me to read more extensively from the collection I brought with me. The audience were most appreciative and even patient when I “fluffed” the special effects in “Road Rage”! The poem, my response to being forced to enjoy others’ music from passing cars, at high volume, massive bass output levels, depends to some extent on being able to play in the background an aria from “Madame Butterfly,” a beautiful piece called, “Un bel di, vedremo,” translated, one fine day, we shall see. Perhaps one fine day I’ll get it right! The night in Lampeter I was reminded to hold the speakers on the phone to the mic, NOT the screen! Easy be mortified among such lovely people. By way of compensation here is a link to the proper audio/visual version of the same poem.
http://wp.me/p1x8WB-gl
Afterwards I was hosted by another poet and wonderful lady, Jane Llewellyn. It was a pleasure having such fascinating conversations with her and her daughter. They live in a beautiful valley and it was refreshing to soak up the peace and serenity there. Again I say that when the idea of the WISPA poet exchanges was first being developed, inbuilt was the hope that the exchange poet would have a chance, space and time , to experience creative inspiration as part of their tour. This was present throughout the tour.

trees in jane llewellyn's

It would be difficult not to feel inspired in such surroundings, trees garlanding valleys, wild flowers everywhere and daffodils running riot along the verges.

However, as if that were not enough this day, 26th March, had a lot more to offer from both the natural and poetic worlds. We headed next to a nature reserve at Cors Caron.

This area is a raised bog, only marginally disturbed by human activities. With a raised walkway meandering across the landscape it offers glorious views in a most peaceful setting.

cars caron3

Hidden in the heart of the reserve there is a bird watching hide, a wooden building the same shade of the marshy world around it. A glass wall forms one side and there you can watch nature in an unobtrusive way, or share poems.

cars caron4

For Jane I read one of her own pieces, an elegy for her recently lost great friend and neighbour Dai. It was a lovely setting to share poetry and I felt would be equally a contemplative place to compose.

strata florida1

Next was Strata Florida, the plain of flowers, the site of an ancient monastery wrapped in great and comforting silence, the sort of place, in the words of WB Yeats, ‘where peace comes dripping slow.’

strata florida2

We wandered awhile among the old graves with their wonderful Welsh slate headstones until, suitably soothed by a place many others spoke of and were delighted I had been brought to, it was time to leave contemplation aside and return to Lampeter for an afternoon and evening of intense poetic activity.

To be continued, a workshop in the University of Trinity St. Davids, a reading by Sujat Bhatt and a meeting with the National Poet of Wales.

An October Evening

An October Evening

On a dark October evening trees reached bare arms towards the little group on the poorly lit street.  The few remaining leaves added to the unnatural effects.  Leaves dancing across the few street lamps scattered splinters of light and shadow over the youngsters.

“You go first!”

“Why should I?”

“Yeah, why should she?”

“Cos I said so, that’s why!”

“If you’re so brave then go on yourself!”

Silence followed, broken only by the wind rustling yet more dead leaves on the ground.  Distant lorries added a low rumbling note, steady and ominous, heard on the fringes of hearing.  Somewhere nearby a door slammed and loud footsteps echoed down the narrow street.  They had all involuntary jumped at the sudden sound.

The tallest youngster, the last one challenged, looked around his little band of followers.  A challenge was a challenge and could not be left unaccepted, even more so when you are the eldest and the tallest.

“All right, I’ll go first, but you all follow!  Is that clear?”  He looked slowly around the little group who all nodded in reply, some more certainly, firmly, than others.  “I go first and you all follow, got it?”

“I will, don’t worry, I’ll follow.”  Everyone looked in surprise at the fair haired girl with the good torch in her hand.  Her little brother, the youngest of all, stayed close by her side, saying nothing.  There was an air about him that if he thought he’d get away with sucking his thumb he would.  It was hard to say which he clung to more, his sister or the torch she held.

“Go on then, we’ll follow you,” one of the other boys added.  Vigorous nodding of heads expressed heartfelt agreement.  Faced with all of this the tall boy now had no choice.  He must go on, he had to lead them in.

Rotting ironwork pretending to be the gate it once was presented no barrier to them.    As quickly as possible in the gloom they moved past tottering headstones, yew trees pointing towards the dark sky, celtic crosses crumbling towards them.  The further they went in to the old graveyard, the deeper the darkness seemed.  He hesitantly stepped forwards, steering a course by the dim outline of a large chestnut tree he could see.

If that was the far corner then he knew the collapsed vault he had seen in daylight had to be nearby.  He was suddenly afraid he would take one step too far, one step into the waiting open grave.  “Damn!” he said, louder than he intended.

Behind him he heard the shouts from the others, “you all right?” “You O.K.?”

Realising he was near enough their target he couldn’t resist crouching down behind a tottering headstone, tall enough still that he could hide in it’s shadow.

“I found it, come on!” he shouted out, grinning to himself in the darkness.

Now the wind sighing through the skeletal branches of trees was accompanied by stifled laughs, squeals of delighted terror, muffled curses as shins barked on unseen kerbstones of graves.

When he judged the moment right he jumped out dramatically from behind the headstone.  His loud screech, prolonged as his lungs could bear, was enough.  He heard the sounds they made running as fast as they could.  Now they were heedless of obstacles, drawn towards the dim street lights like moths with a death wish drawn to the candle’s flame.

A bright beam projected a cone of light along the ground.  The fallen torch cast it’s own shadows.  The fair haired girl and her little brother had been too stunned by the initial fright to flee with the others.  Satisfied with his results the tall boy retrieved the torch and returned it to the girl.  The little boy spoke up then.  “Well, where is it?  You said you’d show us.”

Faced with the pair of them looking at him expectantly and unexpectedly he blurted in reply, “over there, I think,” pointing vaguely to his left.

“Thought you knew, come on so,” the little boy said, dragging on his sister’s free hand.  She shrugged and went along with them.

“Wait up then, I’ll show you.”  The older boy quickly overtook them and with the torchlight illuminating the ground ahead of him quickly located the dark space yawning open in the ground.

Old red bricks were visible along the sides of the collapsed vault.  Three pairs of eyes followed the beam of light downwards.  They peered at the rubble of brick, mortar, clay and dust.  “There it is!” cried the little boy, calling a halt to the wandering light.

Fascinated he peered down, oblivious to the comments on either side of him.  The skull returned his gaze from the furthest corner.  Hollowed eye sockets were even darker in the bright light’s glare.  Torn between horror and curiosity they seemed frozen in place until the girl felt her brother tugging at her sleeve again, saying, “come on, we can go now.”

With their curiosity now satisfied, their courage tested, they went.

Reading “A view of the Tholsel”

A view of the tholsel, a vilanelle inspired by the painting of Paul Henry, RHA, a reading by myself, hope you enjoy…

The Tholsel, Kilkenny

Meditation on a view of the The Tholsel, Kilkenny

A villanelle inspired by the painting of Paul Henry, RHA

Firstly, let us consider the chosen point of view.

Rejecting the familiar the artists searching gaze led

him to the little known garden where poplars grew.

There he lingered a long while in the breeze,

eyes lifted up from the river’s leafy bank,

working in the cool shade of shimmering trees,

looking over high stone walls, none new,

all old, all grey, stone on stone leading upwards

where, framed by white clouds, by sky of soft blue

an octagonal tower sheathed in copper leaves

presents four clock faces to the people,

chiming out the hours in pleasant peals.

The visiting artist caught our familiar anew,

carrying his canvas down Horseleap Lane, long

vanished now, forgotten, remembered only by the few.

So my familiar seems exotic to you

as my exotic is your familiar too.

So your story helps me see and feel

that to others, my own is also real.

Ivy

She drew my eyes to her,

ivy of the woods.

She stood out

as a black hole of darkness

amidst the low light of Winter’s sun.

Pleasant was the air among the trees,

sun’s rays lighting

smooth and rough skin of the trees,

warming earth for the Blue Bells,

still asleep,

save only  in the middle of the woods,

among the trees,

a place where ivy profusely grows,

a great hole of darkness,

so strong that she nearly

drank thirstily

the bright light of the woods.

She drew my eyes to her,

ivy of the blessed well,

but full of light now,

wet,

on the sides of steps

going down to the blessed well,

wet, reflecting

light around a dark place

ivy, light of the blessed well.

With the grace of God, ivy

from darkness to light.

copyright Kevin Connelly 2012