Capturing the world with Photography, Painting and Drawing

Posts tagged “Kilkenny

These Autumn evenings , Image and Poem by (John) Robinson Jeffers, (1887-1962),

Irish Landscape Images
Autumn eveings County Kilkenny
Nigel Borrington
Oct 2018

Autumn Evening

Though the little clouds ran southward still, the quiet autumnal
Cool of the late September evening
Seemed promising rain, rain, the change of the year, the angel
Of the sad forest.

Autumn Evening
Nigel Borrington

A heron flew over with that remote ridiculous cry, “Quawk,” the cry
That seems to make silence more silent. A dozen
Flops of the wing, a drooping glide, at the end of the glide
The cry, and a dozen flops of the wing.

I watched him pass on the autumn-colored sky; beyond him
Jupiter shone for evening star.
The sea’s voice worked into my mood, I thought “No matter
What happens to men . . . the world’s well made though.”


Drawings from the Hedgerow …..

Art of the hedgerow
Digital Drawings
Nigel Borrington 2018


Drawings from the Hedgerow ……

Art of the hedgerow
County Kilkenny
Digital Drawings
Nigel Borrington 2018


Monday Evening Poetry : A Night in the Field, Jay Parini, 1948

Suntsets over Country Kilkenny
Nigel Borrington 2018

A Night in the Field
Jay Parini, 1948

I didn’t mean to stay so late
or lie there in the grass
all summer afternoon and thoughtless
as the kite of sun caught in the tree-limbs
and the crimson field began to burn,
then tilt way.
I hung on
handily as night lit up the sky’s black skull
and star-flakes fell as if forever—
fat white petals of a far-off flower
like manna on the plains.


A ripe moon lifted in the east,
its eye so focused,
knowing what I knew but had forgotten
of the only death I’ll ever really need
to keep me going.

Did I sleep to wake or wake to sleep?

I slipped in seams through many layers,
soil and subsoil, rooting
in the loamy depths of my creation,
where at last I almost felt at home.

But rose at dawn in rosy light,
beginning in the dew-sop long-haired grass,
having been taken, tossed,
having gone down, a blackened tooth
in sugary old gums, that ground


Irish Landscape Photography :  Morning in the fields

Irish Landscape Photography,
Morning in the Fields,
Nigel Borrington 2018


Ghost House in the Irish landscape, Poem by Robert Frost, 1874 – 1963

Ghost House
Robert Frost, 1874 – 1963

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had


Images of Summer 2018 : Down in the Barley

Images of Summer Down in the Barley
Nigel Borrington 2018


Capturing Ireland’s heatwave, July 10th 2018, The River Runs Dry, taken from a Poem by : Veronica Ellen

Irish summer 2018
The heatwave, the river runs dry
River Lingaun
County Kilkenny

The River Runs Dry

The river runs dry from mouth to stream
No rain from the sky, and all the land screams-
For nourishment, to save the dying crop
But God has no mercy and all the crops rot.

The heat strikes the fury, arouses the flame, sets the fire
Burns down the struggling trees, wealth an unrealized by flame.
burning bushes, so often unseen.

Weakens our roots, and their spirit is broken
Will it never rain again? , so many are hoping.


The River Runs Low, Bruce Hornsby and the Range, Album The Way It Is

The River Runs Low
Bruce Hornsby and the Range
Album The Way It Is

The rain held back again
Haven’t felt a drop since you went away
Outside of town, the hills are brown
I guess way out there you’d call ’em golden
Lines outside the welfare store
The clock is stopped at the bank next door
They yelled like hell when the boys left home
Now just like you, they’re all gone

The river runs low tonight
And eyes are closed on the waterline
The river runs low tonight
And you’re always drifting through my mind
The river runs low tonight
And nobody waits for the tide to rise
I’m gonna wait till you make
The river run high

Whoa-oh…Whoa, oooh…
The old man’s gettin’ on
Keeps the morning paper in his overcoat
It keeps him warm in the cold storm
And he told me today I look a little lonely
Up in the air they’re heading south
The sky is light to the west of town
With a little cash I could get around
You know I’d come out there and find you

Whoa…
The river runs low tonight
And eyes are closed on the waterline
The river runs low tonight
And you’re always drifting through my mind
The river runs low tonight
And nobody waits for the tide to rise
But I’m gonna wait till you make
The river run high

Whoa-oh…Whoa, oooh…Whoa-oh….

Up in the air they’re heading south
The sky is light to the west of town
With a little cash I could get around
You know I’d come out there and find you

Whoa…
The river runs low tonight
And eyes are closed on the waterline
The river runs low tonight
And you’re always drifting through my mind
The river runs low tonight
And nobody waits for the tide to rise
I’m gonna wait till you make
The river run high


Skyfall – Ulysses By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Skyfall
Kilkenny Landscapes
Nikon D700, Sigma 28mm f28 lens
Nigel Borrington
2018

Ulysses
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
it is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.