ALTHOUGH I can see him still.
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, "Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.'

There they were,
all shining
clear
and see-through
plastic
the hole’s on top
like the Pantheon
in Rome
all open to the skies
the flies
the opaque yellows and pinks
mangoes and pineapples
with names like
rasbamango and applefluff
people walked accessorized
cups in hand
brains frozen
from the combination of low fat
probiotic,
bionic yoghurt and fruits
that could never, ever
have grown in Connemara.

Sand burns red, sunlight hits the little
waves, dappled Connemara coat.
Berries form. Sweet orbs,
sweet life, Spring ticks over.
Time's a running clock, silent
and unnoticed. May dances in
on a breeze. No ribbons, no pole.
The dandelions roar in the field,
in the garden, daisies blush
and whisper to the trees
the hawthorn blushes too,
what giggling conversation
takes place on the seashore?

An old man cocked his car upon a bridge;
He and his friend, their faces to the South,
Had trod the uneven road.  Their hoots were soiled,
Their Connemara cloth worn out of shape;
They had kept a steady pace as though their beds,
Despite a dwindling and late-risen moon,
Were distant still.  An old man cocked his ear.
Aherne. What made that Sound?
Robartes. A rat or water-hen
Splashed, or an otter slid into the stream.
We are on the bridge; that shadow is the tower,
And the light proves that he is reading still.
He has found, after the manner of his kind,
Mere images; chosen this place to live in
Because, it may be, of the candle-light
From the far tower where Milton's Platonist
Sat late, or Shelley's visionary prince:
The lonely light that Samuel Palmer engraved,
An image of mysterious wisdom won by toil;
And now he seeks in book or manuscript
What he shall never find.
Ahernc. Why should not you
Who know it all ring at his door, and speak
Just truth enough to show that his whole life
Will scarcely find for him a broken crust
Of all those truths that are your daily bread;
And when you have spoken take the roads again?
Robartes. He wrote of me in that extravagant style
He had learnt from pater, and to round his tale
Said I was dead; and dead I choose to be.
Aherne. Sing me the changes of the moon once more;
True song, though speech:  "mine author sung it me.'
Robartes. Twenty-and-eight the phases of the moon,
The full and the moon's dark and all the crescents,
Twenty-and-eight, and yet but six-and-twenty
The cradles that a man must needs be rocked in:
For there's no human life at the full or the dark.
From the first crescent to the half, the dream
But summons to adventure and the man
Is always happy like a bird or a beast;
But while the moon is rounding towards the full
He follows whatever whim's most difficult
Among whims not impossible, and though scarred.
As with the cat-o'-nine-tails of the mind,
His body moulded from within his body
Grows comelier.  Eleven pass, and then
Athene takes Achilles by the hair,
Hector is in the dust, Nietzsche is born,
Because the hero's crescent is the twelfth.
And yet, twice born, twice buried, grow he must,
Before the full moon, helpless as a worm.
The thirteenth moon but sets the soul at war
In its own being, and when that war's begun
There is no muscle in the arm; and after,
Under the frenzy of the fourteenth moon,
The soul begins to tremble into stillness,
To die into the labyrinth of itself!
Aherne. Sing out the song; sing to the end, and sing
The strange reward of all that discipline.
Robartes. All thought becomes an image and the soul
Becomes a body:  that body and that soul
Too perfect at the full to lie in a cradle,
Too lonely for the traffic of the world:
Body and soul cast out and cast away
Beyond the visible world.
Aherne. All dreams of the soul
End in a beautiful man's or woman's body.
Robartes, Have you not always known it?
Aherne. The song will have it
That those that we have loved got their long fingers
From death, and wounds, or on Sinai's top,
Or from some ****** whip in their own hands.
They ran from cradle to cradle till at last
Their beauty dropped out of the loneliness
Of body and soul.
Robartes. The lover's heart knows that.
Aherne. It must be that the terror in their eyes
Is memory or foreknowledge of the hour
When all is fed with light and heaven is bare.
Robartes. When the moon's full those creatures of the
full
Are met on the waste hills by countrymen
Who shudder and hurry by:  body and soul
Estranged amid the strangeness of themselves,
Caught up in contemplation, the mind's eye
Fixed upon images that once were thought;
For separate, perfect, and immovable
Images can break the solitude
Of lovely, satisfied, indifferent eyes.
And thereupon with aged, high-pitched voice
Aherne laughed, thinking of the man within,
His sleepless candle and lahorious pen.
Robartes. And after that the crumbling of the moon.
The soul remembering its loneliness
Shudders in many cradles; all is changed,
It would be the world's servant, and as it serves,
Choosing whatever task's most difficult
Among tasks not impossible, it takes
Upon the body and upon the soul
The coarseness of the drudge.
Aherne. Before the full
It sought itself and afterwards the world.
Robartes. Because you are forgotten, half out of life,
And never wrote a book, your thought is clear.
Reformer, merchant, statesman, learned man,
Dutiful husband, honest wife by turn,
Cradle upon cradle, and all in flight and all
Deformed because there is no deformity
But saves us from a dream.
Aherne. And what of those
That the last servile crescent has set free?
Robartes. Because all dark, like those that are all light,
They are cast beyond the verge, and in a cloud,
Crying to one another like the bats;
And having no desire they cannot tell
What's good or bad, or what it is to triumph
At the perfection of one's own obedience;
And yet they speak what's blown into the mind;
Deformed beyond deformity, unformed,
Insipid as the dough before it is baked,
They change their bodies at a word.
Aherne. And then?
Rohartes. When all the dough has been so kneaded up
That it can take what form cook Nature fancies,
The first thin crescent is wheeled round once more.
Aherne. But the escape; the song's not finished yet.
Robartes. Hunchback and Saint and Fool are the last
crescents.
The burning bow that once could shoot an arrow
Out of the up and down, the wagon-wheel
Of beauty's cruelty and wisdom's chatter --
Out of that raving tide -- is drawn betwixt
Deformity of body and of mind.
Aherne. Were not our beds far off I'd ring the bell,
Stand under the rough roof-timbers of the hall
Beside the castle door, where all is stark
Austerity, a place set out for wisdom
That he will never find; I'd play a part;
He would never know me after all these years
But take me for some drunken countryman:
I'd stand and mutter there until he caught
"Hunchback and Sant and Fool,' and that they came
Under the three last crescents of the moon.
And then I'd stagger out.  He'd crack his wits
Day after day, yet never find the meaning.
And then he laughed to think that what seemed hard
Should be so simple -- a bat rose from the hazels
And circled round him with its squeaky cry,
The light in the tower window was put out.

--------------------------------
[ A location worthy of a  ]
[wooden corral, adorned]
[with a canvas quilt of     ]
[saturated impressions.   ]
----------------------------------

Connemara is an area of
Connaught in the west of
Ireland, it is the postage
stamp on an envelope, that
nobody ever dares to frank.

SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS

THERE was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man:  gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.

There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.

It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.

Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.

I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;

Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man:  gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.

Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.

Handel

played on a concertina

in the dreamy hours

of a June night

spent

on the shores

of the far reaches

of Connemara

as we confessed

many sorrows

and ample joys

with a northern glint

in the sky.

There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.

It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.

Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.

I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;

Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man:  gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.

Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.

Connemara morning early
iron grey sky
scarping waves
of sharp and tempered steel
and a sun barely creeping
on peaty bog
and marshy sheep-shod field
here dwelt the silent ones
fertile gods of Erin's clan
who fed the earth
and coaxed the land
solemn faces watch us still
through smoky mist
on emerald hill

Yawning dreams, slate hues,
Mystic shout mournful mountains,
  .  .  .  Connemara blues.

I was eleven when it happened.
Bartley the man of the house,
As  judge and jury,
Passed the sentence,
Condemning the mongrel.
Peter took him to the shore,
He licked his face.
Tail wagged with trust,
As he wrapped the bailing twine around his neck.

Carefully selecting two stones,
Amongst the many stones of Connemara.
He hitched them to the bailing twine,
Using a made up sacred knot,
To deliver death.

Lifting him in the cradle of his arms,
Which in time would hold his son.
At the sheltered place where the sand was pure white,
And the little waves caressed the shore,
The dried seaweed crunched underfoot,
Creating the pungent smell of sea,
He threw him in the deepest part.

He struggled.
Broke the surface once.
Gulped the air.
Fell back.
In the crystal clear water,
Legs threshing in the sea of life.
Then his mouth opened to the ocean.
Wild eyes.
The last ****.
And then stillness.
The stillness of a carcass anchored,
To the sandy bottom,
With twin stones  from a worn rocky field.

I lamented the cruelty of it all.
But then for all its beauty,
Connemara was a hard and cruel place.
The gallows audience left,
Let the tide to do its work.
Never to swim there again,
A place tainted by the evil,
Of the drowning of the dog.

There has just been an
announcement over the
intercom in 2 languages.

Chien Perdu, Dog Lost.

Attention Attention, a
photo of Arly has been
posted at the Pursers
office, if anyone knows
of his whereabouts, can
you please contact us.

Hmmm, I say to that, he
is no loss, noisy little runt.

Hope the Gulls got him.


Time now 12:56 C.E.T on
board Connemara en route
to Cork from Santander.
12th November 2018.

Hamaca is a 16th Century
Spanish word which describes
a suspended apparatus for
sleeping on, during the period
of The Armada's.

Here, aboard The Connemara
Ferry from Santander to Cork,
11th Nov 2018 the bunks are rigid
but our intestines are in bascule just
just like being on a See
                                        ^  
                                          Saw.

I sat as close as one could
to the tide line, not being
aware of which way it was
moving and with no moon
nor debris at hand I had
to wait and see if I got wet.

Suddenly, a Boomerang in
carved aboriginal symbols
washed up beside me.
Surely not I exclaimed, it
was hardly possible that
The Gulf Stream brought
it all the way from Sydney.

Twelve hours later I came
back, the level had changed,
gull and seaweed concoction
gave scent to the sound of air.
I etched something on the
throwing arm and watched
the farewell as a Gael Force
from the hills of Connemara
declined its wish to return.

Then, as a hungry Gannet
it swooped both wings into
The Atlantic surf ,with its
celtic scroll and the words
we discovered inside my
mothers wedding ring.

Number 19 Corona Row
is where Covid Con lives.
He is a retired bank robber
still wears a mask because
there is a wanted poster in
the local Police Station with
his mugshot, so if you see
anyone acting suspiciously
such as social distancing or
washing hands excessively
this could be Con trying to
erase his finger prints from
his right hand, the one he
used on the safe door dials.
Con, originally from a place
in Ireland called Connemara
is a fluent Irish speaker, so
he may occasionally slip in
an Irish focal in a sentence.

When I was working in Berlin,
I met a group of Germans en
route to Galway on the West
coast of Ireland for a Pan Celtic
week end.

After their return, we met again,
I enquired, how did it go for you?

" Shizer, it was an Irish Soda Bread
  national baking festival hosted by
  the #Brown Society Of Connemara ".

LEAVING NO LEFT TURNS LEFT UNTURNED


Taking directions
in the wilds of Connemara.

"...left!" he said.
I nodded.

" ~...then left and left again!" he said
I uh huh'd.

"This seems to be a country of left turns!"
I quipped

Rain drip drip dripping
from the rim of my hat.

"That's right..."
he smirks

"We used up all the right turns
years ago!"

Well, apparently we are back,
it is at times like this I wish I
could bounce and land in the
country again on a farm like
the Isle of Innisfree bordered
by fields of trees for animals
and birds, far off mountains
with lakes tied to rivers, but
alas, the dream ends, reality
is a predator always stalking
the aspirations of innocence.
Returning is the nightmare’s
futile search for a stallion, it
ends with the dawning of a
realisation that if the horse
had bolted (the stable door)
she wouldn’t be out there on
on the craggy wastelands of
Connemara facing an Atlantic
wind with mane and tail hoisted
lamenting "Quarry Field Farm".

Still Life

Out in the hills of Connemara

Long before the Electric City
                               /
Came to Cliften, Poitin stillers

Made Uisce Beatha from a mix

Of potatoes barley and wheat.