We return home-home for the day,
to pay our respects to another one gone.
On the way down from the funeral,
we pass each other, stop, turn, stare,
recognise childhood friends by their eyes. Continue reading “Monument to Home”
My thanks to everyone who made it possible
For the ancient pagans, they say, every sacred place was haunted by a familiar spirit – the genius loci – something less than a god but equally uncanny: some dryad, naiad, elf or goblin. Dinnseanachas or placelore was one of the earliest forms of Irish vernacular writing. Every hill, river and road, sacred or not, once had its story. They still do. So this issue of Corncrake is all about Place, or rather particular places, and what they mean to people. Continue reading “The Spirit of the Place”
Landscape – Memory – History
Becomes a landscape heard and felt and seen
Sunshine and shade one harmonizing green
The legend of the land endures, in men and clay,
In heart and marrowbone, in acre, perch and rood,
Offering and accepting always
A passion never spent,
A song of sacrifice, the hot testament
Brendan Kennelly Continue reading “A Townland Journey – Derrylea”
High in the cool breeze
under the Burren Forest
I lie, waiting
as millennia pass Continue reading “Under the Burren Forest”
The leaves are glowing, yellow, red and gold.
The river’s laughing through the narrows
Where the rocks are frilled with white.
My path is splashed by giggling waves
Of tea-brown water dashing down the glen. Continue reading “Autumn by the Roe”
The shivering of a frosted lake as nesting swans trouble its unfamiliar surface, their beaks long, orange beacons in forensic sunlight. Continue reading “Haibun (winter)”
Dragged down by the weight of the world on her shoulders
She climbed onto the dragon’s back and saddled herself
Behind the mighty, ferocious head of the rumbling beast
She curled herself cat-like, eyes closed, ready to leave Continue reading “China Girl Sleeping”
You’ve come to find the hill from where your ancestors were driven.
You’ll come in off the Dublin road to rest under the shadow of Wicklow’s old hills. Posters of last Autumn’s Music Under the Mountains will intrigue….a small place like this to host such artistes.. If you are inclined to play some notes or sing with the Hollywood robins and thrushes, your music too will be under the mountains. Continue reading “Cheney’s Hill”
There is a map in my head, and I pick the four elements of my childhood compass. Roads were meaningful back then; the asphalt road had its own scent. After rainfall in Summertime, it was intoxicating – mooched through nostrils, as dust rose. Broad leaves of the chestnut trees, buds of amber bursting out, contrive to make me a child again. I stand still. Continue reading “Leave the Calling-Card”