Artist
Alexander Averin
Sunday, 30 June 2013
Wednesday, 26 June 2013
Buttercups
Ranunculus
On my antique oak table the French slipware
jug cradles such a temporary fragility.
I could not be disturbed by their profusion
in my garden for there could be nothing
malefic about buttercups; their joyous
yellows are never baleful or harmful,
thriving as they do even more so now
in our poor,
drenched and depleted earth.
I store their magic along with their vision
in the compartment of memory that
I keep for those vile, vexed days and wonder why
we cannot be like the buttercups.
Could we not persist, rise up and open
our eyes wide enough to see between the
enclosing, dying
trees? When times are shaky,
the light is low and all about us is rapidly
breaking in pieces, should we not spread ourselves
in battle, against
the odds. Instead we
sleepwalk within a cosy, manufactured
reality; instead we make no sound.
Cait O’Connor
Sunday, 23 June 2013
Just a poem
Passed
Lives
Could I have been the hermit on a Celtic coast,
the writer in her hut, the poet praying at the well.
A solitary saint?
The lighthouse keeper, high, alone and lofty on some
rocky shore.
The singer with a voice pure and lasting, effortless
and sure.
The dancer with just music flowing in my veins.
The player of the tunes with much feeling in the
strains.
The tennis player, swift, precise and pure, a legend
in the game.
The true artist; seeing all and then setting free
the sight.
The whitest, wildest pony roaming wide and free.
The sensual, sultry cat, somewhat pampered, fed and
warm.
The bird that always flies alone, glides, swoops
and nests
where peace lies in a beauty
which the taint of Man has yet to kill.
Cait O’Connor
Kingfisher!
My year is made because today M has seen the kingfisher on our river bridge. It was before seven in the morning and this poor photo was very hastily snapped through a (dirty) window through rain, wind, mist and low light (well it is summer!).
Last year I did not see it at all which worried me and most summers I am lucky to see only a few flashes of the brilliant blue as it flies up or downstream. Only very occasionally have we seen it unmoving for any peiod of time.
Needless to say I shall be up early from now on, camera at the ready. Watch this space won't you? And please keep everything crossed.
Bye for now,
Caitx
Thursday, 13 June 2013
Edward Snowden Petition
Stand with Edward Snowden petition
People signing all over the world every half second
http://www.avaaz.org/en/
People signing all over the world every half second
http://www.avaaz.org/en/
Sunday, 9 June 2013
Garden Thoughts
Pot Pourri, Herbert James Draper 1863-1920
Garden
Thoughts
I am perennial, lasting, stalwart and courageous;
fragile but not brittle or insubstantial for I am an
enchantress
and shall not easily crumble, fracture or fragment.
I am hardy, tough, bouncing back whatever may befall
me.
I am pastel, soft-hued, sweet-scented,
seemingly gentle, quiet and tender.
(Keep me from exotics, the red-hot, fiery fervent
types,
those hot-house specimens will only disturb my roots).
Plant me near water in semi-shade,
let me flourish in a space where only warm sun
shines
and the soft rains of Ireland fall.
Keep bees around me; may you and they enjoy my scent
and colour,
let my ambrosial, aromatic balm scent your days and
sate your senses.
Preserve my petals in pot pourri or a pouncet box.
Do not prune me, cut me back or take cuttings from
my stems so I
may bloom and bud and for you I may even set seed,
if you nurture me,
speak to me often and gaze at me with love.
Think of me in winter when I am unseen but un-dead,
hiding with the dormouse in a deep,
hiding with the dormouse in a deep,
and sweet-sleep hibernation under a snowy blanket of
white.
Wait for me for I shall return.
Do not lose hope,
Keep me in your heart and your imagination.
Cait O’Connor
Saturday, 8 June 2013
Wednesday, 5 June 2013
Ode to Rain
Blue Rain
Artist Marcia Baldwin
Rain
Goddess
Into
each life a rain must fall.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Rain goddess; elemental, vital, only
only really at home in the mountains;
she mizzles, drizzles, spits and spots
for she is pure rain, she is precipitation
falling from the skies, carried on a cloud.
She is a downpour drencher, a cloudburst
soaker who can either be a flurry
or be foul, wild
and wanton with the wind.
She can shower you or she may scare you
but
a
rain goddess may softly caress you
and with the rays of the sun might bring
you
rainbows in her wake. Her outflowing
tears
really only want to bring you much joy
as she descends upon you from the skies,
feeds your body and sustains your dry
Earth.
Her diamond dust brings forth our
magical streams
and rivers; gives birth to our deep
oceans.
causing torrents with her force for she
is
pure rain, she is precipitation.
Cait O’Connor
Sunday, 2 June 2013
Funeral for a Friend
Funeral
for a Friend
As I watched a wholly good man’s body
laid into the ground after the requiem,
the missa pro defunctis, I thought how
his kind seem all but extinct now, a priest
with such an honest heart, like the Roman
ring he always wore, pure gold, intagio,
a gem engraved in pastelled cameo.
For
his ways were truly mellow, moderate
and
kind, tender but always unobtrusive
whose lips
had brushed no others’ mouths, only
the pax, the holy kiss of peace at
High Mass
in his sacred monastery. As the
crucifix was laid upon him I considered
his
life, forever enclosed, his spirit
ruled by his
religion
and its cloistered
celibacy. A
force for good passed with
him on that day and
as it rose we were
left miserable and marooned in our
disillusioned, aimless orphan of a world.
Cait O’Connor
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