Diary Post 23rd September 2024
The Worker |
Diary Post 13th September, 2024
Ecclesiastes 3, 1-8
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
Diary Post 5tth September 2024
Good Thursday Morning 2024
As earthly travelers we can choose
The hour to celebrate our muse.
To pin a time to watch life spin
To draw light down and pull it in
To let summer work in summer skies
To feel goodness seep through old mud pies
Then when weary sighs float in the air
A new-day's light will soothe one's care.
Morning Briefing
Fashion statements for next year will
illustrate grey skies and green earth ...
summer flowers have started to die off here
and the birds only leave their nests when
there's a break in the cloud ..
New government are climate forward led
and a sowing bee has started
Wild meadow makers are up and at it
green lanes are being added to town plan
Diary Post 5th August 2024
Oh August O8
It was apt poems that poets writ
reminding me of days
when night and light shared skit
enjoying last of summer's blaze.
I mind their words as I muse
on August's fine memorials
for here, in Eire, I watch her weep
a sorry phase and pondered.
That maybe she'd confused her tide
and shouldn't she know better,
for how does one attend this pride
rubbed out with brumal weather?
But then I rowed on flooded streets
bypassing all our clutter
and met a trout who had found a route
to take him to the river.
Oh August, you're a canny thing
re-routing fish to rivers while
you drowned our world with salty tears
upsetting all our dwellers.
Mari, '09s
The Winter Ballet
Study, Watercolour on Card, 2023
Diary Post 21st July 2024
Living History
President Biden
“Together, we overcame a once in a century pandemic and the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression," he said, reflecting on the accomplishments of his administration.
“We’ve protected and preserved our Democracy. And we’ve revitalised and strengthened our alliances around the world. It has been the greatest honour of my life to serve as your President. And while it has been my intention to seek re-election, I believe it is in the best interest of my party and the country for me to stand down and to focus solely on fulfilling my duties as President for the remainder of my term."
Barack Obama, who selected Biden as his running mate 16 years ago, said on Sunday that the decision was a reminder that the president was “a patriot of the highest order".
Diary Post 19th July 2024
Today's Writing Space
Near where the thrush has its nest ...
Diary Post 17/01/2024
PRAYER
If I had a prayer to speak to earth and sky
I would light a wick and ask flame to burn
My words where all that is abides.
I'd call on sun, to shine down on my plea,
Then I'd ask the stars to spray my type azure,
So wind could see that they were dressed to fly.
Amassed with light my prayer would dance-on-clouds.
No nature's hand would tear apart its force.
Its chanting sound would explode earthly squalls.
In tunes that know, just how to weather-all.
For a prayer once writ might spell a wish.
And type secured could spin a wish through flame.
Mari 2009
Diary Post 15th July 2024
Waking Rage
Nature was occupied with its daily preparations. The early morning held a shushing stillness. At daybreak a lemon color layered a translucency on the air, preparing a canvas for the sun that would soon burst out of its circumference to fling light through a thrilling birdsong, and explode energy through the dawn chorus. It was how humans gained purchase on their day.
Then the light dimmed a little, like a speck on the corner of the eye, and then it dimmed a little more, and then the chorus quietened down, and then it quietened a little more, and so it went, and early morning became a lesser affair; the glory days became stories that children heard about as they were passed down; stories of how delightful life had been iback n the day, in the time before the airplane and the car broke ground.
Someone asked why? and answers were bandied around. A smog had taken hold was an answer easily understood … yes! like the ones that Sherlock Holmes talked about, the London ones.
A smog had appeared to move through cracks, to explore the space like an anger that never knew release from fear: this one that grew became enraged, in wokeful days when storms broke ground and rivers burst their banks, and life was reflected in the mirror that, at the start, had been put in place.
Mari, 21/07/2021
Diary Post 13th July 2024
An Old Lyric from 2016
We're made by stardust
We're stirred by fun
We're kissed by sunburst
That's how it begun
Rising daring on fretted scales
On windy sails in sounds on trails.
We're stitched by moonbeams
And lulled by dreams
Love's born and kindled
A fired with schemes
Rising daring on sunny sails
Lightning happy on inky waves
On the people run
On the people run
We're made by stardust
And stirred by fun
Love kindles in sunbursts
On the people run
On the people run
Mari 2016
Diary Post 11th July 2024
I am still struggling with all that was lost in the Covid Epidemic, my Facebook memory told me this poem was from 8 years ago, and I immediately thought that's a generation, a whole generation and we all missed out two years of it. It's like there is a sore space in the aether waiting on healing. And then I looked on the date and it said 2014,so maybe 8 years is the real deal, and I can cancel the 2 from COVID. I wish I'd never heard of it --like so many others. However this was a fun poem to write and it's a good memory.
On a Summer's Morning in July in Andalusia
An early mist sheds light on communion:
Sky's blue floats on an easy sea that lays-out
Sinuous see-through cut-outs through which
Man view fish that scud around the wading
White pillars that step in their path.
And the cooler morning air brings fishermen out:
They who know the lines that wary fish avoid,
They who know the bait that just might make them rise,
And they have this summer's nature on their side;
As they drop their patient line they wait
Quietly, for the bites, under sun's blue shade.
But the cool abates as noon creeps up the sky,
Then they take their lines and nets and small boats in.
As heat drops down, to raise, In yellow orbs
That spin through noon; and in the afternoon
Sun sweeps the sky before she falls, to cool
The evening tide, to call the local out,
To watch collected dust and colour set.
Calling locals out to view her at her best --
Calling locals out to view her evening dress.
One designed by earths' couture to flow and flounce,
And fall just as moon pops in to ready
Dusk for dark: She lights the lightest sky
And on her heels trips in The North Star.
Mari, 2014
Diary Post 9th July 2024
The gloom that's invaded our light over the last week has been staggering. There is no switch to knock it off or turn it down. But I can't just sit at my computer and do nothing. Can I work with our language to create 'real new' worlds, is it worth a shot, I write most days anyway, and it might be fun,
So I choose to build a few imaginary componants to compose a 'What If.' programme.
What If
What if there were Alchemists of Dawn?
What if elementals were real and working hard behind the scenes to rebuild our energy fields?
What If they were made from light fill electfified energy?
What if they were helped along by thunderbolts?
What if thunderbolds were real and not just feats of the Greek immagination?
What if the use of colour and language mattered and it was enough to create a happy feel-good effect to raise spirits?
What if that was enough?
What if message from the Hippocratic Oath 'First Do No Harm' was interwoven through all of our creative and buisiness intentions in life?
Diary Post 7th July 2024
The skies are grey, overladen with heavy cloud, but there's no rain falling, just an all day cloud take away that's been served from sunrise to sunset.
Occasionally a small window opens in the sky and one gets a glimpse of blue, beautiful blue alive within a small aperture; such a stark contrast to the pervasive gloom. Who knew that there was so much gorgeousness hidden up there. How wonderful it would be to infuse this grey with the brilliance that lies beyond.
I imagine what it might be like to download it, to drop and drag it into my day, would the birds sing louder, would the cats jump and play. And sometimes the air adopts a green tone. barely there yet undeniably present, and it adds a layer of depth to the day’s monotony, a faint promise of renewal and hope. And sometimes threads of light shoot through the cotton that never goes astray.
Mari, Portnashanagan July 2024
Diary Post 3rd July 2024
Art: Spring Painting the Sky
'C'è ancora domani'
Women are no longer accepting that violence in any way shape or form should be part of their lives. i watched this film in the Cervantes cinema in Sevilla, it was in Italian with Spanish Subtitles. Something probably got lost in the translation, I reviewed it here.
REVIEW for 'C'è ancora domani'
The Darkling Dance
In the bleak basement flat Ivano the husband shutters the windows; outside in the shared community space a few neighbours, women, watch his actions, the anguish apparent on their expression.
Delia stands in the room, waiting as Ivano steps forward, his face a mask of cold intent. Swiftly, he strikes her across the face. And as a silent crescendo echoes through a cruel air a single note, Middle C, resonates ominously, anchoring the viewer in the unsettling reality.
As Delia falls her body crumbles against the wall, and a thin trickle of blood escapes the corner of her mouth: a tooth loosened. Using the wall as anchor she draws herself up and again he advances and like a well trained fighter, his steps mirror the tension in the air as Delia rises into another well aimed slap and falling forward stumbles into his arms, and into his macabre dance. Her body an unwilling participant.
This time he pulls her forward, holds her hard against his chest then Ivano swings her out and pushes her back, holding her with one hand as he grips her throat, his grip tightening and the camera zooms in to highlight her eyes, and as they widen with fear his fingers dig into her skin and the camera pans to show a dark bruise bloom across her neck.
The note ascends, driving the octave to bridge a silent scream and in a realm of darkness and despair the audience sense a burning body run across a bridge. IN the room a dark symphony of pain and oppression fades into a haunting memory and a chilling harmony underscores the horror.
Outside the in the community area the neighbours wait.
This scene is a stark portrayal of domestic abuse, using the language of dance and music to convey the silent agony and resilience of the victim. It captures the physical and emotional toll of violence, leaving an indelible mark on both the character and the audience.
The film explores issues dealing with feminism, abuse, and the importance of a vote in a working democracy ...VOTE
Diary Post 1st July 2024
I was in Portugal for the month of June, working and painting, and I wrote a short piece for the Solstice. It's wasn't a great day weather wise. I think I was expecting something more which is what struck me.
I titled it under the Golden Eye of the Sun
"The Atlantic Ocean roared like a lion that proclaimed its strength to the encroaching summer. As it spiralled, day stretched its body through the multi-toned air. Summer colours rolled through spheres struck by light, they lanced the air that delivered cut glass popping blows. Cawing birds tasted the heat rising from their beating wings--wings that chopped through the hue, wings that rinsed silver shards through vibrant blues, as on the strand the ocean tasted the chaos that bore down, where light crystals drove the happy light."
Diary Post 4th September 2024
If--
By Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: --Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And--which is more--you’ll be a Man, my son!
Copyright Credit: n/a
Source: The Poetry Foundation
Diary Post 20th July 2024
A Common Soul
So the cliché we're born to die resounds
through life as we collect shrines,
friends, acquaintances,claim ownership
on husbands, wives, kids; affect shows
of beggary, riches and power till we come to be
somewhere in our 40s or maybe even 50s,
and then we relate to memory and hear
past acerbity when bad things supervened
and we wallowed forever, or so it seemed
as minds locked onto energy to spew
deeds at its own behest.
But then we (maybe) conclude our ownership
as we realise all we truly owned were words:
Words to bless or hurt and how we used them
fated the state of our life, and we ask then!
What will be missed when we're zapped through?
Will it be said he owned this or she wore that?
Or will a child say my father spoke softly of life,
and my mother showed me love through the
softness that's in the detail of communion.
It's this communion that lights my existence,
which shadows with moods and anticipations
as I step through days swept into calendars
like dust into a pan, and I laugh, fight, cry
eat, talk love, and make love, and each emotion
locks another event into mind to be regurgitated
by memory or through the words of those that accompany me.
Until one day when the cliché will cease to exist,
and my color is consumed with only an imprint left.
That of a common soul who emerged,
and lived in the interval or lived awhile.
Mari 2008
Diary Post 18th of June,2024
Today it rained all day, who knew that it could bring such pleasure, the small birds, in particular showed their favour as they lit through the fresh energy released from the sky, and early in the evening a pine marten paid a visit.
Summer showers falling, falling straight down like vertical lines running down a jersey, raindrops spaced out with a spark of life--all choreographed by nature.
Does that mean that not all space carries the same weight when sectioned by light? Can you imagine looking through the space between raindrops, is all colour united there.
The thrush -our darkling thrush-came out from its nest and perambled around the front garden as if to view a strange occurrance, which he was to me. He normally swings on the clothes line on fine days and shoots back into his nest when the cats are about. Maybe he was worm hunting, happy to feel part of life again, what is it about gloom! We had rain and a little of the gloom was lifted for all living creatures in our landscape.
Diary Post 16th June, 2024
A New World Rising
There's a new world risingf
From the deep blue
On tides that are advising
Both me and you!
In hearts connecting,
To beat in tune
Painting the song played
Under the moon
There's a heart moon falling,
It's coloured, too
It's falling from a star
On a rope of dew
There's a heart moon falling
through staggered hue
True hearts connecting
true hearts directing
Respecting respecting
The colour of communion
and conversation
There's a new world rising
In hearts so true
All love is streaming
Through me and you.
Diary Post 14th July 2024
The Artisan of Light
Meeran was a Keeper of Colours: An Artisan of Light; each day, she worked by the pond on the edge of the forest.
Her churn was crafted from seashells and bound with reeds from the riverbank. These were like slim, flat laces that crisscrossed the surface in shades of green and straw, blending beautifully into the fine shell cover. She sat back and watched as forty shades of purple and green breathed new tones into the mixture. As Meeran worked, the colors she summoned seemed alive, interacting with the world around her. The purple hues whispered of twilight mysteries, the greens echoed that fresh, crisp morning scent, the blue, reds and lemons illustrated a thought of wild flowers and wild sky.
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A Summer Boreen
The Linnet's Wings House Art
Diary Post 12th July, 2024
The Alchemists of Dawn
That morning at twilight, Elecke stood under the night sky, tending to a cooking pot hung over a lively fire she had built from the fallen branches of stars. The contents bubbled with the raw essence of dawn. Into the melting concoction, she sprinkled sky-grown fragments from the dark blues of the receding night and from the fiery oranges and pinks of the rising sun. Then, with a ladle made from moon rock, she stirred the mixture, guiding its transformation as the colors melted and merged into soft, early morning pastels. Elecke was happy, for when she viewed the contents, they showed a clear, light-filled vibrance, and from their rising scent, she knew this sunrise would introduce another fine day. Then, just before she poured, a thundercloud rumbled ominously.
Diary Post 10th July 2024
"It was dusk, and I was swimming, enjoying the pull and tug of the heavy waves that seemed to support both the air and me. It was a lovely, secure tide, and I appreciated it, aware of the other kind--the one that breaks on this, the windiest beach in Andalusia, rolling the stones and rattling the shore."
This happened. But all fiction is part subjective isn't it, for what else have we to copy from if not our own perspective and view of the world. I visit my facebook memories, so anything I forget they throw into the light, this was from 2016, and I edited it today. Glad to have the opportunity, too.
Diary Post 8th July 2024
"The land of Inbetween is situated in a workbook that is set in a large bookcase in the study of the old manor house. It has a hardcover made of leather that is tooled in gold lettering, and it has a silk page divider, a thin strip of material that bookmarks a page for a reader. This place is where Siren lives, and it's a large book, with 1000 rulled pages and most of these are full of diary entries; stories and literary devices that were completed over the years by older generations of the same family."
I have always been intrigued by what lies within, what else, if anything, is there--here or 'out there'-- besides us. It's why I write or edit or read. We all have similar internal organs that just keep working if we take care of them. I do my best to stay fit. And I feel as if we're all living in workbooks at the minute and as we watch climate issues unfold we're being squashed between the lines on someone else's page.
Diary Post 6th July 2024
It's summer and the land blooms in green abundance; the mingling of rains and higher temperatures has deepened the hues of nature’s palette. Hedges, trees, ditches and meadows are spilling out of their imaginary borders and leaves of yellows, ivy, reds and blues fall in waves that sweep across the horizon
In the garden, the crab apple trees are speckled with fruit, they add a blush to the skinny contorted branches wrapped in luxurious leaves. Down by the lake sheep lounge in quiet fields, their heavy coats catching the soft light filtering through a silver veil of clouds, the air is rich with the scent of imminent rain. As I watch, through my window, a lone sheep meanders up the bridal path, its movement slow and deliberate against the tranquil backdrop. There’s a sense of completeness in the air.
Now its dusk and as sky moves through a weave of cloud. Air tattoos and paper lanterns split an octaves’ band in three where the upper room is coloured pearl, the middle sits in misted shreds, as the lower tone cradles the sun’s elegant descent in this summer season where every sunset promises the dawn of new stories.
Mari, 05/07/2024
Diary Post 4th July 2024
The second quarter of the year was busy, I flew into Florence at the end of March to attend an art workshop. During WW11 all the bridges over the Arno, apart from the Ponte Vecchio, were blown up. Hitler while working as an artist visited the city and appreciated its beauty so he ordered that the 'Vecchio' be left intact--or so it's reported.
For the first week I walked along the Arno each day to get to the college. Walked by the Pitti Palace and past the Uffizzy, too, the kids renamed it the Uffitzzy, as my appreciation was so vocal. It was all great fun. We're so lucky to still have access to the voices, the work and the vision, to have the opportunity to continue to build on the beautiful. I am grateful that governments and organisation care enough to continue to save and maintain the artefacts for all of us.
After my course I stayed on for a few weeks and visitied Sienna and San Gimignano, too.
Dairy Post 2nd July 2024
I'll be home in the Lakelands shortly, in Portnashanagan on the shores Lough Owel -- on the Sligo road. If you have a creative spark within you it's difficult not to be involved in some fashion within the field while living in the area. The sky is bigger here, it rolls out in front of you. And all swans connect back to the 'Children of Lir.'
Lilliput,
Sits on a silver lake that's set under
a purple sky. It’s here that names are recalled
that were scripted on folios of dusks and dawns,
as they talked all day of war and those who died
when they stole the fleet off the Blefuscudian.
As noon shadow settles on Lough Ennell,
small soldiers shimmy in blue, gold and green,
meandering through susurrations,
planning escapades with giants, nano men
swan ladies and all the while conversing
with fairies: the ones who are visible to all.
Mari 2012
Art: The War Machine
The Linnet's Wings House Art