My Secret Spot on the Beach, a Poem and images.
Images of an Irish beach
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
My Secret Spot on the Beach
To a few I showed my secret Spot,
To many I reveal it is on The Beach,
In Waterford, still without my help,
none may find, because is called mine,
My hidden Beach Spot
Its open, its free, yet guarded and protected
All can find, all can see, but beyond the vision,
belongs to me, My Secret Spot,
On the Beach, in Waterford…
A friend I call to Show my Paradise,
and share the secret rooted
inside my heart, with all my soul,
My loved Beach spot,
Loved , and so very special to me!
Early in the Spring
County Kilkenny, woodland landscape
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Early in the Spring
By : James Kent
Early in the spring
Not a leaf has struck the ground
The swallow has yet to sing
And the plowmen are no where to be found
Early in the spring
The forest stands still
And no creature dare come out
Before the sun rises o’er the hill
Early in the spring
The valley holds the morning dew
And its serenity may be captured
By only a certain few
.
Early in the spring
The trees turn, brown to green
Many changes occur
But few can be seen
Early in the spring
Or in the latter of fall
No matter the change of season
The evergreen stands tall
The Old Dead Tree, By David Harris
An old dead tree, Kilkenny woodlands
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Old Dead Tree
By : David Harris
The old dead tree stood
gnarled weather torn;
its limbs were now brittle.
What stories could it tell
of the centuries it had lived,
the passing lives it had seen,
and the storms it had weathered
when it was young and strong.
When its foliage was green
and gave shelter from the rain.
Now it stands bare and broken,
a sorry sight to be seen.
It must have been beautiful
when it was young
with its canopy of green,
and a nesting place for little birds
among its evergreen.
Now they only used it
as a resting place whenever they pass by.
The old dead tree,
which had seen so much life.
The Unnamed Lake, Poem by : Frederick George Scott (1861-1944)
The Unnamed Lake,Comeragh Mountains,Co.Waterford
Irish Landscape Photography
The Unnamed Lake
By : Frederick George Scott (1861-1944)
IT sleeps among the thousand hills
Where no man ever trod,
And only nature’s music fills
The silences of God.
Great mountains tower above its shore,
Green rushes fringe its brim,
And o’er its breast for evermore
The wanton breezes skim.
Dark clouds that intercept the sun
Go there in Spring to weep,
And there, when Autumn days are done,
White mists lie down to sleep.
Sunrise and sunset crown with gold
The peaks of ageless stone,
Where winds have thundered from of old
And storms have set their throne.
.
No echoes of the world afar
Disturb it night or day,
The sun and shadow, moon and star
Pass and repass for aye.
‘Twas in the grey of early dawn,
When first the lake we spied,
And fragments of a cloud were drawn
Half down the mountain side.
Along the shore a heron flew,
And from a speck on high,
That hovered in the deepening blue,
We heard the fish-hawk’s cry.
Among the cloud-capt solitudes,
No sound the silence broke,
Save when, in whispers down the woods,
The guardian mountains spoke.
.
Through tangled brush and dewy brake,
Returning whence we came,
We passed in silence, and the lake
We left without a name.
Images of a rivers flow, Flow a Poem by : Noel McGinnis
As Rivers flow
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
FLOW
By : Noel McGinnis
Be as water is without friction. Flow around the edges of those
within your path. Surround
within your ever-moving
depths those who come to rest
there – enfold them, while never
for a moment holding on. Accept whatever distance others
are moved, within your flow.
Be with them gently, as far as
they allow your strength to take them, and fill with your own being
the remaining space when they are left behind.
When dropping down life’s rapids, froth and bubble into
fragments if you must,
knowing the one of you-now many
will just as many times be one again. And when
you’ve gone as far as you can go,
quietly await your next beginning.
Forgotten Old Doors
The old red door.
Fujifilm x100
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Poem : Forgotten Old Doors
Old building on the Street some think it’s beautiful, others, just drab.
Many tread these thresholds, worn like tattered lace.
old address update in a compelling space.
Green’s a fitting color for a door, so is white.
A wisp of green in the morning light.
Kernels of romance in dilapidation, hint at the intent of this creation.
How many souls passed through this door? Closed for good or will there be more?
Memories of work, hope and laughter, dreams and wishes that bathed the rafters.
Evocative of a simpler time.
Speedy technologies permeate mine.
A rusty spigot, red weathered board. How long has this old place been ignored?
Cooler dressed in rust, corrugated tin, small dab of spring vegetation sneaks in.
And at the end of yesterday, memories within.
January Sky. A poem by : Dorothy (Alves) Holmes
Landscape view of south county Kilkenny
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
January Sky
Dorothy (Alves) Holmes
January chill freezes sky –
Early morning silhouette of pines
Are lifeless…
I close the blinds to this pale sky and go to
The east window where the sunrise
Throws kisses to awaken the day,
With promises to make me smile and
Bring the trees to life.
Her promise glows!
The Sea Gull’s of Galway bay, Poem: Edwin John Pratt
Sea gulls, on Galway bay
Irish nature Photography : Nigel Borrington
Sea Gulls
By : Edwin John Pratt
For one carved instant as they flew,
The language had no simile—
Silver, crystal, ivory
Were tarnished. Etched upon the horizon blue,
The frieze must go unchallenged, for the lift
And carriage of the wings would stain the drift
Of stars against a tropic indigo
Or dull the parable of snow.
.
Now settling one by one
Within green hollows or where curled
Crests caught the spectrum from the sun,
A thousand wings are furled.
No clay-born lilies of the world
Could blow as free
As those wild orchids of the sea.
Down in the deep water, Image and Poem
Castlecomer lakes and river Dinin, county KIlkenny
Infra-red image
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Down in the deep water..
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where I ponder my life
Just how did I get to this
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where the waterfall of dreams
Sweeps away what’s left to the abyss
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where time stands still
just only forever.
Down in the deep water
By the edge of the river
Where I buried all
That was ever my childhood
Where I let it go,
Where it bends and meanders,
Twisting along as the years went past.
Seemingly calm, but screaming beneath the surface
Were its hidden whirlpools, a sweeping current
Down in the deep water,
I left the edge of the river,
As I looked down
For my soul at the bottom.
Deep in the deep water
Swept away by the river
I drowned in life,
Sinking forever.
Stable By Claudia Emerson
A Family Stable in county Kilkenny
Photography : Nigel Borrington
Stable
By Claudia Emerson
One rusty horseshoe hangs on a nail
above the door, still losing its luck,
and a work-collar swings, an empty
old noose. The silence waits, wild to be
broken by hoof beat and heavy
harness slap, will founder but remain;
while, outside, above the stable,
eight, nine, now ten buzzards swing low
in lazy loops, a loose black warp
of patience, bearing the blank sky
like a pall of wind on mourning
wings. But the bones of this place are
long picked clean. Only the hay-rake’s
ribs still rise from the rampant grasses.
The Storm Crow Calls. By, John W. McEwers
The storm Crow
Landscape Photography, Nigel Borrington
The Storm Crow Calls
By, John W. McEwers
It sounds like rain
big rain
the kind that hurts
if you tip your face back
and catch drops on your tongue, ill advised.
But whether the rain hits hard or you stay inside
it screams thunder, and you must pay
attention enough to hear
the storm crows call,
telling you you aren’t safe
or strong enough
or big enough
or happy enough
but you dont know better
and you believe him when he calls
and the storm crow gets your goat
in his talons.
Reflections , poem by Emmy Gaspar
Kings river at Kells , County Kilkenny
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
By : Emmy Nielsen Reyes de Gaspar
There is so much beauty in life,
Beauty in the human soul,
Beauty in the heart and in the mind
Of the good man and woman.
Reflections
There is beauty in nature,
Beauty in the sky and in the clouds,
In the mountains and in the sea.
There is beauty in the creative work of man,
Beauty in true friendship.
And immeasurable beauty in love.
All these things,
To delight us in this world.
Far away lake , Poem by: Beckian Fritz Goldberg
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Far away lake
By, Beckian Fritz Goldberg
We can’t get there
by road, by rope, by
wing
by time—
though time would be the way
by boat
by please please
.
time would be the way
then the reed-quiver
a cloud of gnats
mumbling its hypnotic suggestion
by sleep, sleep
until you say
lift my elbow straighten
my legs
And I
straightened you in this life
like flowers
but the little water
there was
went to air
where it came from
And all my love for you
came back—
you couldn’t take it where
you were going
you’d get halfway there
and then you’d drift
arms by your side
like a clock
plucked…
The Sea Of Time, Poem by Robert Crawford
Images of the Waterford coast.
Infra-red photography
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
The Sea Of Time.
by Robert Crawford
On that strange sea
Where Man’s bark moves as toward eternity,
What sails put forth that are not seen again!
So joyous it may be, or in pain,
The mariner doth drive still on and on
Beneath no mortal star,
And to no mortal port — as one
Who may but anchor somewhere so afar,
.
Not himself wrecks if he shall reach no more
In that tremendous sea another shore:
He is so like a wave himself at last,
He would toss through the future as the past —
But tethered as a whale is to a wave,
So he might still the one life have
Through all the changes that may be
On that tremendous sea!
The carpenter’s challenge, By : Joe Bergin
The Carpenters spokeshave
Photography by : Nigel Borrington
CARPENTER’S CHALLENGE
Joe Bergin
First heard of him from Uncle John
Something about a carpenter coming down
From back up in the mountains to work
In the town and on the camps down by the lake
Ate no meat, nothing from the deadly nightshade family
And didn’t drink but once a year
In a three day bacchanal on the summer solstice
I’d seen his work and it was damn good
He was something of a mystery to me
Came down to the lake and that’s where I met him
Working on the family camp
Alight in his eye and doing the work I should’ve done
He had but one good hand and the other
The right one, I believe, had a part of a thumb
And no fingers to speak of really
But Bert could frame an addition or
Build a deck as good and fast as anyone
Had his tricks, though, like the rubber band
Around his wrist to hold the nails his hand
Couldn’t grasp,and many more I’m sure
Tried to find his house once in the back country
To drop off an anti-war t-shirt I knew he’d love
Had the right address but got lost on the
Winding dirt roads and couldn’t find it
Told my brother James about it and he said
“Maybe you weren’t supposed to!”
What is a Horse ? , Poem by : Lily Whittaker
Uisge beatha, A county Kilkenny Horse
Photography : Nigel Borrington
What is a Horse ?
By: Lily Whittaker
What is a horse?
A horse has eyes as dainty as a mink.
The grace is interrupted merely by a blink.
A horse is beauty.
What is a horse?
A horse is a tree in a storm that never goes down.
A horse is a weathered rock that stays around.
A horse is ancient.
.
What is a horse?
A horse waltzes like breeze over rivers.
She curvets and leaps like rain shivers.
A horse is a marionette.
What is a horse?
A horse is determination, that never stops flowing.
A horse is fondness, that never stops growing.
A horse is poetic power.
Slievenamon
Early morning view of Slievenamon, county Tipperary
Irish Landscape photography, Nigel Borrington
Li Po – Alone Looking at The Mountain
All the birds have flown up and gone;
lonely clouds float leisurely by.
We never tire of looking at each other –
Only the mountain and I.
The Glassblower a Poem by : Rhonda Baker
Jerpoint Glass studios, County Kilkenny
Irish Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Glassblower
by, Rhonda Baker
Inside a building near the center of town
A glassblower’s love of glass is quite profound
With sweat on his brow and jacks firmly in hand
Lost in a piece oblivious to the land
People are gathered to observe the dance
To watch this unexpected miracle; as if by chance
To watch someone struggle with every fiber of their soul
To make the biggest, most colorful and stunning…Bowl?
.
It’s a madness for which no cure can be found
But one he’d gladly have, it’s that profound
For glass teaches a lesson that must be taught
Life; like glass must be wrought
And when illuminated, it shines so bright
Now seeing it’s beauty; what an awesome sight!
11/23/09
Rhonda Baker
Poem:When I look down toward the beach, Image Gallery from the Irish coast.
Images Of the Coast at Allihies, County Cork, Ireland
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Poem from the Irish coast line.
When I look down toward the beach,
the distant pier seems to stride
forward from the shining sea.
I like to look beyond,
to the bands of turquoise and blue,
an ocean painted in bold,
abandoned strokes.
.
Why are we drawn to the waves?
Those elemental rhythms,
sounds and colours
of a primary world,
where sparse pointillist spots
busy themselves on
yellow-ochre sands.
.
Some days the morning
unfolds through mists,
groynes spacing out
the distances along the strand,
until a final fade-out,
well before the sea
can meet the sky.
.
Overhead, pterodactyl shapes
patrol against fresh patches
of blue. As I approach,
the blurred semblances
of buildings appear, rectangles
feathered violet or grey,
as if stepping off the cliff.
Images of Allihies : Nigel Borrington
Its a winters weekend so why not….
Nikon D7000, 18-200mm vr 11 lens
Monatray West Beach, county Waterford
Its a winters weekend so why not find a beach and go for a long walk….
On a beach, a winters weekend
I walk on the winter beach
from here to there
and beyond where the beach ends
past indifferent sea gulls
over beached kelps
over bleached sea shells
to the sound of crushing waves
to the call of ebbing memories
.
I walk on the winter beach
I shall go
I must go
alone
beyond where the beach ends
The old Mountains , Friday Phoetry.
Fujufilm X100
Images from Slievenamon, Tipperary
Irish Landscape Photograhy : Nigel Borrington
The Old Mountains
by: Edwin Curran
The old mountains are tall, silent men
Standing with folded arms, looking over the world,
Lonesome and lofty in their manner.
.
They have seen empires come and go,
Civilizations rise and fall,
Stars break on their breasts.
.
They are full of history like great books,
And are merely the stone monuments that the kindly God
Built for the human race, to mark its grave tomorrow.
————————-
Thank you to Elen Grey !, for suggesting I use the word “Phoetry” in my Poetry and Photography posts 🙂 🙂
In Praise of Winter Trees, by : Bill Brown
Winter trees, Millennium Forests Project,
County Kilkenny.
Irish landscape photography : Nigel borrington
In Praise of Winter Trees
Excerpted from Late Winter by Bill Brown, published by Iris Press.
A closed heart can’t greet
a winter sky. Even a rain puddle
is filled by it, and a horse trough,
and the slow current of creeks.
Winter trees, sycamore and oak,
reach for the sky to offer praise –
stark, hard praise, born from all
those rooted years of bearing
the sky’s weight. Some nights
an open heart is filled with vast
spaces between stars the mind
can’t grasp. The thought of heaven
is not so much mammothed by
the sky’s grandeur, but mystified
beyond our silly notions. Winter
trees aren’t arrogant; they praise
no flags, no denominations,
they owe allegiance to the soil.
My sister, when she was younger,
awoke in winter to hold her arms
up to the sky, shiver in the wholeness
of it, let shadows of winter trees
dance sunlight across her face.
Oak, beech, sycamore, maple, and gum,
reenact creation, drop their seeds
from the sky, make their homes
in star dust, and reach back
toward heaven. Trees suffer
drought and freezing rain, accept
the annual tilt toward shorter days.
Some ancient hope, like winter light,
is allied with the gravity of stars.
Winter Chills : Gallary and Poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
Winter Chills
By : Ellen Ni Bheachain
Winter hills of white with silverish gleam,
Of winter season and colors that reflect,
The shades of Gray and silver,
From the suns reflection on natures winter,
Bleak and empty yet in a solitude way,
Resting or sleeping,
Hibernating and regenerated,
Till spring arrives,
Bringing back its florishing blooms,
.
What is pretty to watch is cold to indure,
The chills of winter from watching it indoors,
For the nature trial of winter will,
Chill and freeze,
And numb you till,
Your lips turn color,
The freeze and chills of real winter,
And then as you warm up,
And your nose and finger tips tingle,
And looking around you on natures trails,
Will be the reminding of the hiding buds and roots,
Laying buried beneath the snows of winter,
.
Reminding you,
That too in the spring,
Like the birds will return,
Bringing color and birth back into the light,
With the sounds of nature,
Becoming more musical than winter,
As the birds and the bees,
And all that return or hibernate,
All wake up to wake us up,
To the spring,
When winter chills and freezes thaw,
Taking away the winter chills,
By bringing in the springtime breeze.
As the Sky Touches the Earth, by Robert Stephen Herrick
Nikon D7000, 24mm f2.8 lens
Lough Conn, County Mayo
Irish landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
As the Sky Touches the Earth,
by Robert Stephen Herrick
Wild whisps of torn clouds swirl
rising in energy from wicked winds
and create a surge in the speed
of spinning in succession
slowly at first, yet the terror
turns into an ominous element
yearning and beginning
to take its path.
Forces of nature may often seem
to be manageable to the untrained eye,
though the might and horrifying height
sets its sight and it towers
from the heavens down to the low earth,
terror fills the most hardened heart
as the deadly dread devours
living souls with its suprelative speed.
Unconditional surrender to this fear
is a forced humbling indeed
as homes are flattened like sheet metal
from the turbulent courses
descending in an enormous twisting,
spiraling and ripping of the world
within pieces apart and yet
waiting for no reply.
Croaghaul, Achill Island, Ireland
Irish landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
As the sky touches the earth,
danger is eminent and to be found
in gigantic proportions
tearing apart homes and localities,
shreading living beings and lives
then showering down dirt and debris
across a wide landscape
like a wicked child at play.
Tumultuous and catastrophic with its
destruction, this titanic giant of air
collectively rushed together
breathed in its peril by inhaling
that which once covered
the surface of the earth then
exhaled all it had, but miles away,
staying solid on its path
with determinded disruption,
on its way with its
whirling winds.
Nigel Borrington 
You must be logged in to post a comment.