Irish Landscapes, County Kilkenny
Nigel Borrington
Through the Gate Down the Lane
Through the gate down the lane
all the colours, splits in path
creaking, cracking, axed by frost
scythed by time.
Through the gate down the lane
footsteps left, gone to dust.
Voices in the limbs of trees
shaking leaves when the wind is in.
Through the gate down the lane
where summer has been only once.
Scorch marks of light left behind
the house is nettled, broken, still.
BOG COTTON ON THE RED BOG
A Poem by
CHARLOTTE GRACE O’BRIEN (1845 –1909)
Foynes in June 1895
“ O STRONG-WINGED birds from over the moorland dark,
On this June day what have you seen?
Where have you been? ”
Where, oh! where
The golden yellow asphodel makes its boggy home,
And far and near, Spreading in broad bands of silvery silky foam
O’er the moorland drear, The slender stemmed bog cotton bends in waves of light,
Shaking out its shining tufts for its own delight,There, oh! there We have been.
“O sweet sky piercing, heaven mounting lark,
On this June day what have you seen?”
I have seen—I have seen
The dark red bog and the king fern green,
And the black
black pools lying dim between,–
The baby heather that blossoms so soon
In the splendid heat that comes after June–
———————–
Charlotte Grace O’Brien
was born in County Limerick, the daughter of
William Smith O’Brien who was a Conservative Member of Parliament for County Limerick; she championed the cause for better conditions for those emigrating to America.
Bog cotton on the red bog, images Gallery
In the Valley
Irish Landscape Photography
Nigel Borrington
Stephanie Nicole
Jun 25, 2014
In the Valley
I’m having a rough time with it again.
It’s like mountains and valleys.
If I’m feeling great
I can make it to the top of a mountain.
But right now I’m down in the valley.
And looking at the next mountain,
I don’t want to climb it,
Because I know that beyond it there lie
More valleys.
So I may just stay here.
Faranani
Feb 23, 2014
Purple Orchid
“Purple Orchid”
A symbol of rare beauty
Exotic. Delicate. Mysterious
Precious, in every way
Lost in a tropical land of
Purple Haze,
I am there
Whispering with a tinge of
Innocence yet wild
With passionate dark desires.
A calm stability of blue and
The fierce energy of red
Stimulating mystery and thrill,
A darkened flower
Of refined passion
With strikingly lush petals,
Intoxicating.
In his mind,
I am
A
Purple Orchid
Kayden Fittini
Apr 23, 2015
Petals of an Orchid
Graceful curve of the flower enriched with mystery
melting away any bubbling misery
walking towards the beauty.
(I’m looking to pull this special flower today.)
Wait shall I praise the wonderous bloom
with fragrant colors infused within me soon
something to admire on a daily
choosing between multiple types that look equally lovely.
(I just want to love you.)
The vanilla scent which never fades
you rose from a bed of vibrant shades
to hold and caress –
in your walk stems artistic introduction
keep me within your symmetrical seduction
And in your radiance glimmers across the horizon and seas
its in your nature to please while you tease –
but i cant lie, your approach continues with ease.
to compare your style with nature only makes sense.
how lucky can one be to build a connection that’s so intense!
I pluck the fascinating petals of an orchid.
Colin Carpenter
Apr 12, 2013
Wild Orchids
Your colors diffuse in hushed streaks
across synapses,
as empty spaces also become orchids
and butterfly petals reach for a scent
their counterparts in rain.
A fringed April is actually an orchid.
Mother of Memories
Nigel Borrington
Le Balcony , By : Charles Baudelaire’s
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses,
O you, all my pleasure, O you, all my duty!
You’ll remember the sweetness of our caresses,
The peace of the fireside, the charm of the evenings.
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses!
The evenings lighted by the glow of the coals,
The evenings on the balcony, veiled with rose mist;
How soft your breast was to me! how kind was your heart!
We often said imperishable things,
The evenings lighted by the glow of the coals.
How splendid the sunsets are on warm evenings!
How deep space is! how potent is the heart!
In bending over you, queen of adored women,
I thought I breathed the perfume in your blood.
How splendid the sunsets are on warm evenings!
The night was growing dense like an encircling wall,
My eyes in the darkness felt the fire of your gaze
And I drank in your breath, O sweetness, O poison!
And your feet nestled soft in my brotherly hands.
The night was growing dense like an encircling wall.
I know the art of evoking happy moments,
And live again our past, my head laid on your knees,
For what’s the good of seeking your languid beauty
Elsewhere than in your dear body and gentle heart?
I know the art of evoking happy moments.
Those vows, those perfumes, those infinite kisses,
Will they be reborn from a gulf we may not sound,
As rejuvenated suns rise in the heavens
After being bathed in the depths of deep seas?
— O vows! O perfumes! O infinite kisses!
Dreams of a racehorse
There was a young horse he was just a foal
he was very friendly a lovely little soul
the foal he had a dream that he was in race
running very fast as he set the pace
running round the track faster than the rest
Proving to the others that he was the best
heading for the finish line and heading for the post
this is what he dreamed of, the thing he wanted most
taking home is trophy, a great big golden bowl
he dreamed he had grown up and forgot he was a foal
Dreams of foal
Nigel Borrington
Kilkenny Sunset
Irish Landscapes
Nigel Borrington
That sunset…
A distant look in her eyes,
Stretching beyond the horizon.
A battle long fought,
In her dreams so surreal.
A thousand miles did she walk,
Before pausing to rest.
But the lights began to fade,
For it was time for her sunset.
The Elements, Water : Nigel Borrington
Water is life, out of all of the elements we need for our existence, water has to be the one we are closest to!
By capturing these images here, I wanted to take sometime getting close to water and attempt to make a connection to it. These images were taken yesterday in a local river as it flows through the Irish landscape. This is a shaded and hard to get to, hidden part of this river, even on a sunny day in June the Sun finds it hard to reach in. I felt that this only added to the atmosphere, with the sounds of the flowing water as it moved around the stones on the river bed.
The Elements : Water in Images
Jackie Wilson
MY BICYCLE, THE ARTIST
my bicycle
moves over
a clean slate
of white-snowed sidewalk,
its studded tires
sculpting a piece
of modern art
out of winter
for the city.
DJ Thomas
Bicycles and Poetry in Lisbon
Cycle chic fashion
Our slow bicycle movement
Poetry in bike lanes
Sartorialist’s on two wheels
reclaiming this cities
Bicycle
Nigel Borrington
Ellen Piper
Wilson Rd.
The bicycles were a forged parent-permission slip
But well-forged.
I lifted myself over the tear in the truck’s seat cover, not sliding
Not perforating further for today.
The road was short, short enough to have ridden the bicycles from first start to real start.
But that would not have been exotic
Connection is exotic, and channels must be followed through an antfarm
Proper etiquette must be observed with touch-me-nots
The bicycles were easier to lift from the bed with two
I gave him that, passing a front end, and jammed the wheelspokes with a jabbed finger
So that the damp spinning would not flick his face with groundwater
I expected it to hurt. My expectation tapped lightly.
That narrow pock-marked blacktop was my windtunnel
The air stroked its thumbs over my eyelids and I ached to push, breathe, push further
He held me back with his slow handlebars,
His slow kickstand clicking.
Pedaling slowly is more difficult than flying.
One finds gladness in choosing leaves to crunch with an inch-wide tire
And high-fiving low-hanging branches is socially satisfying.
He smiles behind the white mustache, and I don’t mind.
Nigel Borrington 
Remembering the Battle of the Somme, in its Centenary year.
Poppy fields
Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Tomorrow marks 100 years since the start of the battle of the Somme.
I am sure many will know a great deal about this shocking first world war battle, however if you would like to know more or read about it for the first time, this is a great link !
Battle of the Somme centenary: How is it being commemorated and why was it so important?
As you can see here, like so many I have linked the poppy to the Somme and the first world war, how and why this link came about is detailed below …..
What do the red poppies signify?
The association between commemorating war dead and poppies arises from the famous opening lines of Canadian army officer John McCrae’s poem In Flanders Field, which begins: ” In Flanders fields the poppies blow; Between the crosses, row on row”.
McCrae wrote the poem during the Second Battle of Ypres, the day after he helped to bury a close friend. He had noticed the way poppies bloomed around the graves and included the observation in his poem, which was written from the viewpoint of the dead soldiers.
McCrae was promoted to Acting Colonel and moved to a position behind the lines, but died of meningitis in a military hospital on 28 January 1918. His poetry, however, lived on. Published in December 1915, In Flanders Field quickly became known as one of the defining poems of the First World War.
American humanitarian worker Moina Michael was one of the millions touched by the imagery of poppies growing on the battlefield. To raise money for her work helping disabled servicemen, she came up with the idea of selling silk poppies to be worn as a tribute to the fallen.
By 1921, her efforts had led to the poppy being adopted as the official emblem of remembrance by both the American Legion and Royal British Legion, with poppy sellers an established fixture in both nations.
Gallery and Poem (John McCrae’s poem In Flanders Field)
John McCrae, May 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Another great link about the Somme is here : The Battle of the Somme: 141 days of horror
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Posted by nigel borrington | June 30, 2016 | Categories: Comment, History, Nature and Wildlife, Poetry Gallery | Tags: Battle of the Somme, Battle of Ypres, First world war, Flanders fields, John McCrae, Nigel Borrington, poems, poetry, Remembrance, Somme | 3 Comments