Leaving Dublin, Heading for Achill
the big city is not the land
it’s just a part of it — green fields are all around
and sheep and cattle and a flock of birds
dipped in a grey air wrapping up the sky
really closing the view
to a bluer contact with the above —
travelling is the same everywhere you go
you can move from town to town
losing your link with the earth
that’s why the city is not the land nearby
but just a little part of it
15 Aug. 2009
Achill is a Hawk
achill is a hawk calling from the sea
achill is a mountain, a feather and a sheep
it makes you feel dizzy
blowing its winds into the top of your lungs
it makes you perceive the sun and the salt
invites the mist in the air to jump from tree to tree
achill makes you sleep like an innocent abroad
who yearns for his mum’s sweet breast
and tries to seek the best out of his life to come
flesh and marrow and bones
achill is a beast flying from its cage
towards a chart of unity and singleness and faith
achill is the weather a mountain and the ocean
a stubbornly grazing sheep
within the evergreen fields of your soul
16 Aug. 2009
Doogort Hill
you have to make your own way up —
that’s what the young girl said
when i asked her for a trail
to the top of doogort hill
i lost myself in a sloping peatland
where brown rivulets were running down
i found myself proceeding in a zig-zag
trying not to fall into puddles of soaked sod
water was here water was there water was everywhere
water disguised in thousand holes
water under each turf of grass
water from the sky and water from the earth
soil and water merging their abundance
oozing to build a brand new slice of turf —
the irish family’s sacred right to burn
its own distinctive piece of earth — said paul later
are you ready to produce your own energy
and flame from the water and the land?
it demands a thousand years’ vital spirit or survival
you have to make your own way up the hill —
that’s what the young girl said to me
since there is no track nor path or trail
19 Aug. 2009
Two Achill Sketches
P. J. opens his shop
P. J. takes a look around
then whispers something to himself
P. J. steps back inside and sits down
expecting no one in particular to come
… … … … …
loomings from achill island
the great mother of inventions…
bury your own statements
under the turf-ground and wait
let them bloom like a daffodil
over a pale white moon
22-23 Aug. 2009
Strand Hotel, Doogort
i can’t accept a vision like that — the wildness
of the ocean runs over my deepest thoughts
washes away each illusion of delight
makes me reconsider all the goodness of the wave
together with the far-away private shore
where all our souls will gather and melt
in the company of the gannet and the kittiwake
24 Aug. 2009
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