Self Portrait

I don't believe that I have ever shared with you that my first love was painting and that at various times in my life I have been quite prolific. During the in-between times my mind was wholly taken up with poetry which filled and satisfied my being.

Creative poetry now seems to have left me high and dry once again ! So I have now returned to my first love once more and have set myself up in our spare room.

In the background are my glass paintings which provide a screen between two rooms.

Here is a replenished supply of my oil painting tools, the tin lid in the foreground is my palette.

I don't believe in wasting money on fancy equipment apart from 

my Peterson pipe and baccy of course - both very necessary to me!

Here is my painting, after twenty-five years of being in the doldrums. 

This is my first ever attempt at a self portrait (minus glasses and wrinkles of course - wink!) 

The background is Co. Clare where we recently holidayed.

Please let me know your opinions in the comments section.

An Almost Floating House.

We sat in the car after our rambles on the shore at Tracht, - see my previous post :https://aheronsview.blogspot.ie/2017/09/tracht-beach-flowers.html discussing all that our eyes had feasted on and the conversations we had been part of with people who were previously unknown to us - and still are because we never exchanged names.

An interlude of silence followed, broken by Mrs H who said she would like a cup of tea. I suggested that perhaps a delicious ice cream from Messrs. Linalla at Finavarra would soothe her, as it was only a few minutes drive away. 

Map of Finavarra

The area around Fhíonaigh Bheara, Finavarra is rather special to me for several reasons.

There is a Martello tower on the point jutting out into Galway Bay, a place that I frequently visited in the past when wanting time alone with the elements and the curlew. 

https://aheronsview.blogspot.ie/2011/09/where-curlews-sing.html

A view of the countryside from outside of Messrs. Linalla's.

Quite close to the village is the ancient site of The O’Dálaighs School of Lyricists and Poets in Finavarra. It is commonly known as a Bardic School however, as the Bards were seen as low class poets who were largely uneducated and whose functions were story telling and satire, I think ‘lyricists’ is a better description of the Schools’ function. 
The higher classes of Poets were the Fillidh who were trained in rhythm of both words, music and mastery of the lyre, later the harp. The Fillidh functioned as Poets, Historians and Panegyrists. The head of the school would have been an Ollamh, the highest grade of the Fillidh (master poet)  attached to the court of each of the provincial kings and sub-kings. There were periods when an Ard Ollamh (High Ollave) was appointed to exercise authority over the provincial Fillidh.

another view from the same place

Another similar establishment was Cahermacnaughten, near Ballyvaughan along the coast, where the once great Brehon Law School was held under the auspices of the O’Davorens. 

Originally these laws were handed down by word of mouth, passed from master to student, but from the seventh century onwards they were written down. One of the most important recorded sources of Brehon Law is the manuscript Egerton 88, now in the British library. This was copied in the 16th century from older documents at the law school of Cahermacnaghten.

 inland bay

The other end of the same bay

'The Almost Floating House'

and I always wonder if the occupiers ever fish out of there windows 

from the comfort of an armchair.

This whole maritime landscape is steeped in all that is precious to me, Irish culture, seats of ancient learning, wild nature and deep peace.

My Journey

Woodbine/Honeysuckle

I don't know what this is except that it grows

in clumps along the road below .

The old long road.

My Journey

I took a walk along the road to see what I could see

wildflowers peeped out and wild bees sung too me

All the while the sun shone gently down over my head 

above it crows and small brown birds flew in warm air.

A hen cackled, a cock crowed in some small stone yard

in the distance a dog barked, I listened to natural sound

Delighted to be me and to stroll in harmony, stopping

here and there to rest or peer through hedgerows.

I saw through bright leaves two heavy horses grazing

one as black as turf, the other dune coloured sand.

I dreamed of a four wheeled bow-top on open road

the clop of hooves, the waft of a tail swinging gently.

A camp site by a slow stream with friends at a wood fire

black tea in my hand, the chatter and companionship.

Perfumed as we were by wild bright colourful woodbine

Lives now only in cherished memory, all gone now, gone.

Awake once more to reality, I turn find a place to sit

fill my old briar pipe to offer smoke as a tribute.

On rising the legs are renewed, the feet soothed

as I take the long road for my cottage home.

© MRL June 2015

Mrs & Mr Chicken - variety unknown

Clover

Soapwort

Dog Roses

Ireland will Rise !

Please listen !

NATIONAL POETRY DAY 2014

On October 2nd I gave an hour long poetry reading to a group of sixteen year old students from St Brendan's Community School in the library at Birr in celebration of the National Poetry Day. 

So to get them in the mood I asked them to close their eyes as I read 

"A dream is an early morning tide

softly gentle waves caress, 

the slopes of a slumbering mind. 

As rolling pebbles 

call memories ashore." 

A discussion followed about the images which the words evoked and in such a way the rest of the session was conducted.  

As a preparation for the occasion I had asked them to translate the first verse of the poem by Dónall Ó Conchúir, (Donal O'Connor 1847-1930), 'Dhá Chích Danann', in order for them to understand the background to my own poem.

'Dhá Chích Danann' -

"Maidin bhreá Fhómair dom cops mórshruth na méithbhreac

I gcoill chluthair cheolmhair is gan leoithne sna spéarthaibh,

An lon dubh is an smóilin go beolbhinn ar séideah,

Gach fás crainn go leor ann cnó buí in a slaodaibh.

Ag dearcadh whom tharam be thaitneamhach limo

Ar Dhá Chích Danann ag amharc anon

Is síbhrat na maidne leabhar leata os a gcionn,

Chomh bleachmhar buan bláfar, chomh hálainn óghchruth."

Translation 'The Breasts of Danu' -

"One beautiful morning beside the great stream of the fertile plain

In a cosy musical wood not a breeze in the sky

The blackbird and the thrush piping sweetly,

Every growing tree there hanging ripe with nuts.

Looking around me it delighted me

The two breasts of Danann

The mysterious fairy mist over them,

As beautiful as the top of the milk that nurtures the child

(As if they were created by God ?)"

Their translation was as perfect as the one that a friendly monk had done for me as he pored over each word and phrase using Dineen's dictionary. That particular dictionary, which covers the nuances of every Irish word, would make a blog post all of it's own - we shall see!

My own poem below describes my experience of hearing the monk's translation:

At a monastery kitchen table I sat

Listening to old Irish being translated

Clear distinct verse with hidden meanings

Spoken in soft tone like a blended prayer

Lulled, my mind by rhythm travelled

As this other language unravelled

So leaving a rich cream behind I flew

To a land where dreams weave anew

To sit with my back against She - Rowan

Who was clothed in milky lace so delicate

I inhaled deeply her fragrant blossom

A vapour that transmuted me to spirit

A wave that kisses the shores of Erin

The song of Amergin

A breath of hot air that ripens corn

Dew on Bealtaine's morn

A mist that caressed Anu's Paps

©MRL 05 - 03 - 2013

As we are approaching Winter I closed the session with "An Ode to Winter Gales". 

ref:http://wordsofaramblingmind.blogspot.ie/2014/01/an-ode-to-winter-gales.html

Amongst Trees and Roadside Things

Nut laden overhanging Beech Tree

macro shot of a Beech Nut

The Beech trees almost olive green are laden with nuts and soon squirrels will

dance on thin branches & to gather their winter fayre. 

A rare road marker

At the road side a rarity sits, it is almost a monument to old travellers, a

hand carved Milestone. The thoroughfares were littered with them once on main roads and byways, at junctions and forks in odd out of the way places; these sentinels stood marking the path and telling the distance.

A surprise came my way the other day. A call from a friend who said

'Can I use your poem "Moon Is" to decorate an entrance for the 

Body and Soul Festival at Ballinlough Castle?'

Needless to say I was delighted with this to me novel way of viewing prose.

Details:

Ballinlough Castle is located on the N52 (Kells to Mullingar road) approximately 3 miles south of Clonmellon and 4 miles west of Athboy. www.ballinloughcastle.ie

Body & Soul Festival bodyandsoul.ie

The words are :- 

Moon is 

                  subtle

Oval ivory white

                  countenance

A sensuous glow

                  disturbs

Who sits in quiet

                  encourages

Observance

                  merriment

At least

                  pleasures         

Tempts one

                  desires

To believe so

                  love 

Innocent  

                  lust

       

    She is an Earthy Woman

© MRL 2014

Words, words, words.

My first published book of poetry

During the time between writing the last blog and now, I have written, no, started composing many others in my head, none of which ever came to fruition. For on each occasion the desire for a slice of cake, a laced coffee or even a small tot of cherry liqueur slipped into my mind and as you probably know a well fed mind that has no hunger within loses its’ desire to create. 

The next day and thereafter the process was repeated; not though today. 
For last night into my mind came nine words - a metaphor - which is like a long lost solitary piece of a jigsaw puzzle and it is still echoing in the recesses of my being. As yet I have neither inspiration nor inclination to do anything with it. That line will be entered in a page of a notebook which has other lost lines and like the others it will grow neither fat nor slim, until one of them drops like magic into a rightful place. Hopefully I shall get started soon and start scribbling away.

At this time of the year, during mid winter we listen to the radio far more than at other times of the year (no TV by choice). 
During my late teenage years I realised that listening to the radio was far better than watching the attention seeking one eyed monster in the corner of the lounge, because at the very least I could paint or read a book at the same time.
So when I reached the age of maturity my decision was not to have a TV. 

Writing about that non-sensical box has revived memories of the letters that I would receive annually from the TV licensing authorities and of the great delight I had when making my polite replies. All of that altered [the politeness - that is] when they changed their previous format and started their letter with a threat to prosecute me, to which I replied with extreme vehemence.
I told them how dumb they were in not noting the contents of my previous sixteen letters and of how they needed to keep a register of non-conformers like myself which would save both of us the cost of postage etc.

Since becoming a pensioner however, the powers that be have granted me a free TV licence for life and I no longer get any letters. That too has its drawbacks as I can no longer vent my spleen annually and rid my self of my accumulated angst !

TWO EMINENT MEN

I was sorry to hear of the deaths of two eminent 74 year olds at the weekend.

Firstly the poet laureate of Ireland and Nobel Prize winner of Literature 
Seamus Heaney.

A short quote from RTE:
A master poet and family man, a Nobel laureate and friend, a guest of royalty and farmer's son: Seamus Heaney had a life which was a smooth blend of the ordinary and extraordinary.
Reaching the headiest heights of literary genius, the ever-modest everyman insisted his poetry was just part of a chain.
"A written chain; we'll call it a human chain," he said when he gifted his manuscripts and notes to the National Library of Ireland.
Heaney's glistening career won him global recognition and a place among Ireland's literary heroes like WB Yeats, Samuel Beckett, James Joyce and George Bernard Shaw.
But talked about in the same company, the unassuming teacher from the 50-acre Mossbawn farm in Co Derry would liken himself to "a little foothill at the bottom of a mountain range".
Both a major talent and a decent, down-to-earth individual, the affable Heaney could smoothly move from dining with the political elite to playful weekends at his Dublin home with his grandchildren.
Born into a nation divided, some of his work was heavily influenced by The Troubles. Yet he never allowed his need to write about political violence to colour his patriotism.



Second eminent gentleman being Sir David Frost.

Short quote from The Guardian Newspaper:
At the outset, the very success of this man in a stupendous hurry proved somewhat alarming to some – as the author and translator Kitty Muggeridge said of him in 1967: "He has risen without a trace." Worse than that, he was nicknamed the "bubonic plagiarist", for allegedly appropriating Peter Cook's gags and sketches from Beyond the Fringe for his television show That Was the Week That Was, and so piggybacking on the achievements of others.

No matter. In the decades that followed, Frost became a media personality and comedian, as comfortable cross-examining the most heavyweight political figures of the day as hosting Through the Keyhole, the show typifying the fatuousness of celebrity culture, in which panellists were given a video tour of a mystery famous guest's property and asked to identify the owner from the evidence.

Frost could never be accused of being a stuck-up or patrician broadcaster. He was a bon vivant, smoker of big cigars, dapper dresser, chum of the rich and famous, and so much of a jet-setter that, for a while, he was Concorde's most frequent flier, travelling from London and New York an average of 20 times a year for 20 years. No wonder he told one interviewer that he was "not driven, but flown".

May they both rest in peace

Bitter and Red Tea

A dimpled pint of bitter

Rooibosh

Friday morning saw me sitting in a comfortable chair in the library, the sunshine was streaming down and warming me, over my forehead came a slight, cool waft of air and in the quietness of that cosy corner memories started to flood into my mind, as I drifted back in time, revisiting places and tastes.

The flavour of a pint bitter filled my senses and in half closing my eyes I was sitting in the bar of a small pub in Builth Wells, Wales where the dark wood wall panels and cushioned benches provided me with an inner warmth. I muse on how the dimpled glass is held not by it's handle but with one's hand placed around the glass with the underside of the top the part of the handle resting on the the right index finger, as I sup to swallow a goodly draught of the nectar.

April does this to me, it draws in the memories more than any other month. I was reflecting on this earlier, when I recalled visiting another pub on the outskirts of Combe Down, Bath. I think it was called The Pack Horse, an old establishment that sold a delicious cider that oft tempted me as a refreshing lunchtime drink. It was there on the radio that I heard the news of John Lennon's untimely demise and where I immediately wrote the following piece

John born Liverpool 1940

ex Beatle and M.B.E.

Departed New York 1980

Cupro-nickle six

Impales vital flesh

Discord rhythm slips

Lennon into death

Amplified sound loses

Earth’s mystic beat

Playing Yoko’s love

with substituted pain.

Songs of love and peace

Will flower forever on

Echoing thro’ the world

In green growing harmony.

©MRL 1980

I don't want you to think that I spent all of my time in pubs. I did tho' frequent many an establishment in my younger days and they provided me with insights of human characteristics and some of them quite pitiable as:

Bristol 6

My favourite Pub

My favourite pub stands

gaunt to the street.

Yet alive with vitality

It’s balance of humour

A serious intent.

Not in this pub stand

the pretentious and proudly sober

they drink not at this bar.

They exist stoned, cold

Beyond their fronts

With hand held can

and

Hypocrisy for company

In this bar

Faded winter flowers

Open deep their centres

Bright blemishes lie honest

naked, bare to the sky

Avoiding not the quick glances

Nor to ask for dispensation

For here drink labourers, pimps

lags and tired working girls.

©MRL 1982

I was aroused from my reveries in the library by the arrival of Mrs H, who dragged me off to the health shop to purchase our weekly supply of Red Tea (Rooibosh).Which is now our favourite tipple, with it's versatile and restorative powers; and the person to who we have to thank for bringing it to our attention is the author Alexander McCall Smith and his series of books on Botswana - 'The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency', where the main character Precious Ramotswe indulges herself by making pots & pots of red tea. For it was in this library that we borrowed his books.

ref www.alexandermccallsmith.co.uk

COOLE PARK, Gort, Co. Galway

Entrance Stone

The autograph tree in March

A Yew Arch

The script is an exact copy of GB Shaws handwriting!

COOLE PARK, Gort, Co. Galway.

The former home of Lady Augusta Gregory dramatist, folklorist co founder of The Abbey Theatre and the authoress of several books including Of Gods and Fighting Men. Who opened her home to the eminent figures within the Arts from 1896 to her death in 1932. Amongst who were George Bernard Shaw, WB Yeats, George Russell aka AE, Sean O'Casey, John Mansfield and many others.

To walk the pathways of this 1,000 acre estate, is to mingle ones energy with the spirits of those who came here in former times, to draw upon its ethos amid the woodlands and or walk the lakeside to the old boathouse. Where I sense a boatman is holding a boat ready for an excursion, while maids bring picnic hampers and rugs, as laughter and pleasant talk peel along the tree lined path..and the earthy roar of a distant tractor returns me to the present.

I am, I know not the only one who is drawn back through time, to feel and hear those notables who graced this place. WB Yeates spoke of faery's, AE of the spirits of the land, Lady Gregory collected folk stories. They too I believe imbibed on the magic of this place; just as we who visit frequently are pleasantly intoxicated by the traces they left behind.

For me to describe in great detail this place would be to spoil and impinge upon the maginations and experiences of future visitors. You have to visit Coole Park and it's autograph tree and before too long, for slowly the new growth is swallowing and taking into it's self those special signatures.

For future information visit www.coolepark.ie