Blinded by the light:

And if you were on a walk,

the path beneath not just gravel

but a road of possibility,

and if the harvest sun, bloated,

the heaviness of being requiring it

to sit low – as if the horizon was a bench

for the larger things to rest upon,

and, playful to the mood of approaching dusk,

the grass dresses itself

in orange tinsel, or sometimes pink

so the shepherds and the sheep can cavort

in the knowledge the following day

would still dawn regardless of the night,

and the evening birds, in flittering browns and blacks,

sing the insects back and so bring 

the buzzing shells of childhood out to play

and the trees have started to morph

into their true guardian state;

and if the dark, with sharpened hand and feet nails,

creeps all the while at the edges

of the mind, allows the real world

to expose itself into the rigid frame

of the photographs we make believe

is all that there is;

and if words ring upon the air,

carry more within them than the mere

weight of sound;

as if stone might be opened,

as if water can be divined forth

with or without the forked branch,

with or without the dowser's knowledge,

as if the mind might be an antennae capable of recalling

all the knowledge lost;

and the stars could be sung down as manna

to flit upon the stretched-out tongues

of open mouths so long closed

that the words that need to be freed have been

kept hidden in the dark,

like lost animals, to dwindle into normality;

and in this moment, as if we hovered

at the edge — the brink 

of what we call life

and what is life — capable of the fall

into free space, undefined by the thoughts

or books

or rules we adhere to ourself

like names to keep us steady and in the entitled places;

and if when the bridles of unseen horses jingle

and the mounds suddenly have doors

and each and every flower,

before they close up shop for the night,

emits a single note of joy

and if you could

at this moment step into a ring of stones

would you return to us

or remain

in that unseen land that sits beside

this one?

And if you remained,

what then of life, would it be stretched out

or remain the same, different but on the same loom so that though the turning is different

to you, in that place, it seemed the same;

and if you returned, would we be here,

or would time become different between you and those you left

so that forever the gulf would remain,

you ringed in those stones no matter how many times you returned

and we

outside, lost

and thinking you had gone from us — eternally dead?

And if this happened would all the dead,

and all the travellers of those different rounds,

crowd round to see our faces,

to hear our cries,

to taste the tears on eyes

that can never quite see?

Imagination #1

(is not)

the ability to create something out of thoughts,

a conjuror who plucks the hidden the coin

from behind the ear of a bewildered audience,

it is not the face carved from marble,

the painting using paint and its absence

to create likeness, the story out of the thin air

of the writer's mind — it is none of these things;

they are but the ripples of imagination

like the ripples of the pond that show

where the stone sunk (or skipped) are are not

the stone, merely a reflection of its passage.

Imagination/otherworld poems

I think another series of poems has begin to do with the Sidhe, otherworld, etc

Another way of thinking:

My heart is a mound, high and stern it waits

like a white horse sketched on the grass

or a pile of stones no one returned to claim.

The entry is blocked

yet easily made when intention

bothers not to focus on the task,

instead waders the landscape between

what is found and what is lost;

hears the moon

sees the wind

and lets the moon drape herself

between and upon the two of us

as we pretend a union of eternity lost in the moment —

and if we make a child of blossom and sticks,

weave a weird to ward off the decay

and find the child might yet still be breached

with on foot on the cauldron and one on the soil

so the blossoms bear fruit

and the lesser soul turns to sticks —

kindling for the sacred fire to ward off the winter's beast

that devouring boar, black as night

hungry as cold,

lost to the world when we discovered

electricity and thought all the answers

would ever be scientific.

This is not to say the climate does not warm

just that of course it does,

it must be expected,

like death and fear and awe of the little miracles

that are lost beneath the days

as we cease to respond to the beings from Hades —

where else must all the flames go

but back into the reality

we only ever acknowledge?

One more new one

Psyche tou Kosmou:

(The soul of the world)

For me, it can be an apple

hanging from the branch, transcendent globe, heavenly orb

that transports me to the here and now.

I see the worm, sense the push of flesh against skin

feel the sun burning green to red

even, if the day is clear, the mind too,

the sound of roots expanding;

gripping the earth, holding it in place and further still

I travel without moving, transfixed,

until the aos sí come walking past

or daemons flick at my hair;

I hear the singing of the people of the mounds

wander into the world of the dead

always here and seldom found,

rest for a time in that place where the real is sound

and light and most of all, it is imagination

ground in the space both in and out

the mind

I expand and contract

breath and do not

shout so loud I find silence

and in that shadow that is sunlight

I touch, even for a moment that lasts a year

the soul of the world

which waits for me even as I leave.

A new poem.

Seal Skin:

I wish I had the skin, still

the cloak I used to cover myself

hide the truth from eyes used to seeing

normal beings as consistent in form

shaken to the core when they saw

me strutting or swimming.

I wish I had the skin, still

seal fur and lover’s blood,

bone of wolf, tooth of shark

a delightful cavern to dwell within —

a place to explore and remain free

while the world rolled on like a cloud.

and I would walk the land

as a wolf, or swim the oceans as a seal

and sing such songs sailors would weep

to think there was more than they could believe

in the world they crossed upon

forever on the surface and never below.

I wish I had the skin, still

but she stole it from me one night

after we had lain together by her fire;

exhausted I slept and dreamed

I was a man trapped in the unreal world —

when I woke she was gone

and here I remain.

The Poet is an Albatross

 So here is another poem from the collection of the same name (as this poem) available from Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/Poet-albatross-poetry-collection-old-ebook/dp/B075YJ37HG/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

        

 

The Poet is an Albatross:

Like birds we are,

migratory birds, eyes bright

gazing into and away from ourselves,

the ocean – spinning words

teasing to be traversed;

cold currents swirling into white-foamed sentences,

waves of thought, of hunger, of homelessness,

for we have no home

no place to remain,

only the journey from blank to filled to blank again;

each flap of our enormous wings lifting us

or settling us and always

the smell of sound calling to us,

and the inner compass begging us to try again

and again —

I feel sometimes

as if these wings have grown too heavy,

feathers frozen with salt air, the scent

a stinging rebuke -

failure

heavy as the laden atmosphere,

for this solitary journey always appears

and finds a space between me

and those I hold dear.

I would like to rest,

to nest in a high mountain far inland

where I cannot hear the ocean,

allow my wings to fall mute

and rest in silence

but then a breeze catches my wings,

lifts a particle of me again into the air

and soon the words become the currents

and I am soaring again —

prescient with the image that I will land

(already the song of heaviness of that journey

anchoring me tiredly again)

but while I soar I give myself over

to look upon it all and try once more

to capture a feeling in a phrase,

the universe in a pause.

a short story for adrian

I recently went to Adrian's wedding to Jen, and that reminded me of this story. I wrote this story after Adrian and his mum (my sister)  returned to live back in Australia after a year in New Zealand. I remember the day as if it was only a few years ago  - Adrian would have been four - he's now a grown man...how the years fly by.

AUTUMN:

By danny fahey

An enormous oak tree lives in my uncle's front yard. In spring and summer I climb its branches. I have done so for many years. The oak tree is a wonderful place to sit and read. My uncle's hammock is tied between the tree and the fence. He sleeps in the hammock while I play beneath the tree. 

It was autumn when I first visited my uncle at his new house. I had been overseas for a year. We had been living in New Zealand. I had missed my uncle.

My mother and I arrived  after lunch. My uncle was sitting at the porch waiting for us. He loves sitting on porches. His dog, Harry, was lying at his feet, panting. Mum stopped the car and I looked out the window and saw uncle Danny smiling. He stood up and waved. My uncle opened the car door and helped me out. We chatted.

‘Hello Adrian. Long time no see,’ said uncle Danny

‘Hello Uncle Danny.’  I felt shy. It had been a long time.

‘Welcome to my new home,’ my uncle said as his hand lightly touched my head. ‘Are you glad to be back in Australia?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said.

We looked at each other and then uncle Danny smiled. I smiled back.

‘Come and see my oak tree,’ said uncle Danny.

Uncle Danny held my hand and together  we walked over to the oak tree. We stopped beneath its branches. It was enormous. I was a bit scared looking up at its swaying branches and knobbly old trunk. My uncle lifted me up and held me close.

‘It is a big tree, isn't it Adrian?’

‘Very big.’

‘Yes’, said my uncle, laughing, ‘very big indeed.’ Uncle Danny pointed at the ground beneath the tree.   ‘Look at all the leaves that have fallen from it.’  He said.

I looked at the ground. Thousands of leaves lay sprawled across the grass. Bright red and orange leaves that lay upon the ground like fallen stars.

‘In autumn the leaves fall from the oak tree just as they do from a lot of other trees.’

‘Why do they fall uncle Danny?’ I asked.

‘The leaves grow tired of hanging onto the branches all summer. When autumn comes their fingers slip and the leaves drift free in the breeze until they fall to the ground.’

My Uncle gently placed me down upon the ground. He smiled down at me, his eyes sparkling.  ‘Would you like to play with the leaves Adrian?’

‘How?’ I asked

‘We'll figure something out.’

We walked around the back. Harry bounded ahead. I walked beside my Uncle, holding his hand. Harry ran up to us with a tennis ball held in his mouth. He dropped it at our feet.

‘Get on with you Harry,’ said my uncle.

Harry barked and wagged his tail. My uncle laughed and kicked the ball Harry had dropped. Harry chased after the ball.

We came to a small shed. The shed was painted bright yellow and had a red roof. It looked funny. I laughed.

‘Yes, it is a funny shed,’ said my uncle.

‘I like it,’ I said.

‘I'm glad you like it Adrian.’

My uncle opened the door. It was dark in the shed. The shed was full of tools. Harry pushed past and sniffed around the shed.

‘Harry hopes he will find a mouse,’ said my uncle.

‘Will he?’ I asked.

‘Not likely, he's too noisy. The mice have long gone,’ said uncle Danny as he looked inside the shed. ‘This is what I'm after. Perfect for playing with oak leaves.’

Uncle Danny held a rake in his hand. Together we walked back to the front yard and stood beneath the oak tree. My mother and aunt Jenny were on the porch talking. Aunt Jenny came down the steps and kissed my cheek. She smelled of scones.

I turned back towards the oak tree and saw my uncle raking the fallen leaves. He raked and raked and the mound of leaves grew larger and larger. I ran down the steps and joined him. The mound of leaves came up to my waist. He started on another mound. When it was as large as the first, he joined them with a third mound. Curious, I waited.

‘There!’ said uncle Danny,’ we are ready to begin.’

With a roar, uncle Danny dove into the leaves. Laughing, I joined him. Leaves went everywhere. In my hair. In my mouth. They even tickled my ears. Leaves slid down my shirt and into my socks. Leaves flew in the air and fell like dry snow. Armfuls of leaves, legfuls of leaves. The air was flooded with leaves as my uncle and I laughed and screamed.

When the mounds were gone my uncle raked them back up again. This time we strove through the mounds with our legs. Driving through the leaves like huge tractors. Creating paths while leaves flew everywhere. From the porch I could hear my mother and aunt Jenny laughing and clapping their hands together.

Uncle Danny became a shark and swam in the leaves... 

Next he became a bird and nestled in the leaves...

A fire, burning the forest... 

A snake slithering through the long grass... 

A dragon sleeping on his treasure...

I joined uncle Danny and between us we traveled to marvelous places. The leaves became whatever we wished. Whenever the mounds vanished my uncle would rake them back again. 

Sometimes Harry joined us, barking and wagging his tail. 

Birds flew passed, chittering at us for making so much noise. 

The day began to darken.  Mum called  to me. It was time to go home. I was sad. I wanted to stay. Mum came over and took hold of my hand. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes.

‘Don't worry Adrian,’  said uncle Danny,  ‘the oak tree will always be here.

‘Will the leaves be here too? ‘

‘If it is autumn. Every autumn the leaves fall. Every spring they return. Just like you going away and coming back.’

‘I was gone for a long time.’

‘Yes you were, but now you are back.’

I kissed my uncle's cheek and he ruffled my hair with his hand. I patted Harry.

‘Come on Adrian,’ said my mother in a funny voice. I looked up at her and saw her eyes were moist.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ said my mother, ‘I’m just glad to be back.’

‘Me too,’ I said.

‘See you soon,’ said Aunt Jenny.

‘Very soon,’ I said then I went and kissed aunt Jenny’s soft cheek.

I felt my uncle’s hand ruffle my hair.

‘I love the oak tree uncle Danny!’ I cried.

‘I love you Adrian. I'm glad you are back.’

Mum and I left uncle Danny, aunt Jenny and Harry at the gate. Uncle Danny and aunt Jenny stood waving  to us as we drove away. Harry barked and wagged his tail.

Since then I have seen lots of trees and played with lots of leaves but I'll never forget that day. Uncle Danny says he will never forget it either.

The magpie's canvas

Before curtains are drawn
and light can enter the mind -
the day fresh and uneaten;

before lover's hand
alights upon the warm spine -
sleep stirred into action,

Winged artist warbles aural paint;
ears fill with gravity - a planet
returned, a promise fulfilled.

The sun given its yellow haze; the eucalypt
greened and greyed, the sky, with each trill
and cadence, returned from night into blue.

Hear the artist's work; brush strokes
with feathered throat and hard beak;
the world made whole in the dawn.

Rusden Sonnet:

Sometimes I think about that strange place where we,

the mad children of the times collected in black caverns

of fantasy and desire. It was so long ago now when we let

our voices whisper and roar as we raced through love and lust,

our hands slipping and gripping even as the familiarity

wove an unbroken chain through the ensuing years.

The hurts we gave to each other were never intended

for we were the wild flowers that bloom in innocence.

I miss those times we spent together laughing and learning,

for though I have found many more moments in the light,

and many moments, too, alone before the howling abyss,

it is the first blossom in company with like-yielding wild flowers

that always fill memories stolen in the fading evening sunlight

with the strongest scent of both tears shed and laughter shared.

A Hanged Fool’s Ode To Rusden:

I went to study Language and Literature

and fell like the Hanged Fool for the rope of theatre,

hung myself on that stage, dangled

upside down: Watched the world

slide by while thoughts in my head

were filled in with the words of others — had they too

hung and spun,

examined the world as if it were frozen

and the only thing that moved

was my desire

as it seeped passed flesh and heart and ear and lip?

I remember Visions.

I remember an apple

and the impulse to say whatever.

I remember the three-way script

spun outwards like a web to snare an audience in ways

I had never fathomed.

I remember I wrote a piece about Russian Caravan Tea

and listened to my words plunge as if I were a well

and (having filled the page) became empty and filled again

by hearing someone else speak my mind.

Once we travelled like beetles to Sydney,

listened to playwrights rewrite their histories

and then there was the tour into the countryside:

There was day in the middle of an oval,

the band through Paul finding a way to heaven,

the kids, the dispersing clouds that spun away

like the old sheets on mum’s clothesline, the sun and I…

I swear if I could I would hold that day forever.

And the time I watched Elena and Neil find and lose themselves

in The Woods

that too I would hold

and the Vowles, the Cliffs…

The very fabric of me

stretched out and tossed by the hands of fellow learners of the craft,

by dancers and singers and lovers and friends,

only to fall back again and cover my skin as if nothing had changed

and it hadn’t and it had

just like the very best of things.