Sunday Evening Poetry , Who Has Seen the Wind? By Christina Rossetti
Irish Landscape Photography
Nigel Borrington
A Poem for Sunday evening !
Who Has Seen the Wind?
By Christina Rossetti
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
Source: The Golden Book of Poetry (1947)
Monday Poetry : To the Moon, by : Percy Bysshe Shelley
Moon and Venus
Nigel Borrington
To the Moon
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, —
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
Thou chosen sister of the Spirit,
That gazes on thee till in thee it pities …
5 images for the week , Smugglers, Poem by : Beth st clair
smugglers
the lapping water drifting to the sand,
the smugglers hurry o’er the silver wave,
a rose-moon blushing where the waters lave
and moonlight glistens on the breezy strand.
the oars are steady, gliding to the land
the stroke of midnight near a watery cave,
their whisp’ring feet run silent as a grave
to its dark reach to hide the contraband.
the waves roll mistily with honeyed breath
the sky, a vault of iron, weeps a tear,
the sweeping waters break and start to veer,
a gold tooth glints, the night as black as death,
a dreadful shout, the watch is drawing near,
how suddenly their faces pall with fear!
5 images for the week – A day Sea fishing ……
Fisherman
Early morning, smelling the ocean breeze.
Having a sharp eye for what is beneath.
Throws the empty line straight out to sea,
pulling it back up, his fish is finally found.
Its A Sheeps Soul, Poem By : fayaz bhat
Its A Sheeps Soul
By : fayaz bhat
O cherisher! Of hairy goats, rocky ridges,
Still vales and white-woolen sheep;
Of my love, of melodies, of muses, of her beau;
It’s the soul of a forgotten sheep
Looking for her poor pastor, his white drove
And, the rest in shade;
Or ‘tis a shepherd, a shepherdess more,
Singing in solitude, rhyme, underneath a tree
In the relaxed midday of jubilant springs,
Ballads, lounged beside the sitting slept sheep.
Or; ‘tis that boy in the wild highs
Playing floyera reclined on the mossy rock—
Goats bleat and forget to graze;
Waking up the beasts, waking up the breeze,
Eared by the deer, cheered by the crows,
’lauded by the woods, echoed by the vale.
Free her! Guide her! For it says so sweet:
My abode’s among the weeds,
The wild flowers grow, the stony meads live.
Gort, Eyeries, Beara peninsula, west cork, Where the sky meets the sea
Where the sky meets the sea
I heard you contemplating so far beyond
Just thinking about it all
And it seems to scare you more than
I ever would before
And I’m a little anxious
But I don’t know why
Trying to find me an answer that
Fits inside my head
Trying to wish away the subtleties
Wishing you would stay in bed
And I’m a little cautious
But I don’t know why
Where the sky meets the sea
We’ll be different just you see
Broken lines can only breakthrough
Heaven and shades of blue
I stumble when you’re shaking I break when you’re
Breaking away from it all
I hide when you’re hiding, and I can’t
Spend all my time holding on
And I’m a little nervous
But I don’t know why
Where the sky meets the sea
We’ll be different just you see
Broken lines can only breakthrough
Heaven and shades of blue
When I’m Gone , Poem By : Lyman Hancock
When I’m Gone
by : Lyman Hancock
When I come to the end of my journey
And I travel my last weary mile
Just forget if you can, that I ever frowned
And remember only the smile
Forget unkind words I have spoken
Remember some good I have done
Forget that I ever had heartache
And remember I’ve had loads of fun
Forget that I’ve stumbled and blundered
And sometimes fell by the way
Remember I have fought some hard battles
And won, ere the close of the day
Then forget to grieve for my going
I would not have you sad for a day
But in summer just gather some flowers
And remember the place where I lay
And come in the shade of evening
When the sun paints the sky in the west
Stand for a few moments beside me
And remember only my best
Monday Morning , Poem By Sainche Micano
Walking to work
Eyeries
County Cork
Monday morning
By : sainche micano
Waking up to routine
craving for a new thing
the broken life still clinging
and the hopeful soul still living
..oh no
says the thoughtful me
….oh yes
says the faithful side
not lost
but tossed
..to face the replay of last week
one more time
..only that this time..
i won’t have you for a while
…
Sunday Evening in the Mountains
In the Mountains
—Li Bai [Li Po]
Why do I live among the green mountains?
I laugh and don’t answer.
My soul is calm:
It dwells in another heaven and earth
Belonging to no one.
The peach trees are in flower.
The water flows on.
—Li Bai [Li Po]
Mountain Twilight , By : William Renton
Mountain Twilight
By : William Renton
The hills slipped over each on each
Till all their changing shadows died.
Now in the open skyward reach
The lights grow solemn side by side.
While of these hills the westermost
Rears high his majesty of coast
In shifting waste of dim-blue brine
And fading olive hyaline;
.
Till all the distance overflows,
The green in watchet and the blue
In purple. Now they fuse and close –
A darkling violet, fringed anew
With light that on the mountains soar,
A dusky flame on tranquil shores;
kindling the summits as they grow
In audience to the skies that call,
Ineffable in rest and all
The pathos of the afterglow.
Like the waves , Poem by Cyrille Octaviano
Like the waves
Cyrille Octaviano
clashing against one another
Struggling to keep up,
but aware of the power
Rising up,
streaming drown
rushing and hurdling
coming ashore
As the sun radiates
illuminating the water,
I can see crystal clear
there is hope.
Dracula, A poem By : Lexi Ree-ves
Dracula
Honed fangs behind
sweet lips.
Lips made to caress my
skin as they travel along
my throat.
So gentle he is,
For a monster
His tongue against my
jugular;
Heartbeats quicken.
Shallow breathing
as his dark eyes
bore into mine.
“Take me,” I plea, “make me into you.”
You are mine…
His voice is thick,
laced with seduction
but also some sort of
tenderness.
His movements
careful
slow
calculated.
He plants a
kiss on my neck,
fangs barely brushing.
And I do not destroy that which is mine.
Kilkenny landscapes (harvest time) , The Harvest Poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
The Harvest
Written by Duncan Campbell Scott
Sun on the mountain,
Shade in the valley,
Ripple and lightness
Leaping along the world,
Sun, like a gold sword
Plucked from the scabbard,
Striking the wheat-fields,
Splendid and lusty,
Close-standing, full-headed,
Toppling with plenty;
Shade, like a buckler
Kindly and ample,
Sweeping the wheat-fields
Darkening and tossing;
There on the world-rim
Winds break and gather
Heaping the mist
For the pyre of the sunset;
And still as a shadow,
In the dim westward,
A cloud sloop of amethyst
Moored to the world
With cables of rain.
Acres of gold wheat
Stir in the sunshine,
Rounding the hill-top,
Crested with plenty,
Filling the valley,
Brimmed with abundance,
Wind in the wheat-field
Eddying and settling,
Swaying it, sweeping it,
Lifting the rich heads,
Tossing them soothingly
Twinkle and shimmer
The lights and the shadowings,
Nimble as moonlight
Astir in the mere.
Laden with odors
Of peace and of plenty,
Soft comes the wind
From the ranks of the wheat-field,
Bearing a promise
Of harvest and sickle-time,
Opulent threshing-floors
Dusty and dim
With the whirl of the flail,
And wagons of bread,
Sown-laden and lumbering
Through the gateways of cities.
When will the reapers
Strike in their sickles,
Bending and grasping,
Shearing and spreading;
When will the gleaners
Searching the stubble
Take the last wheat-heads
Home in their arms ?
Ask not the question! –
Something tremendous
Moves to the answer.
Hunger and poverty
Heaped like the ocean
Welters and mutters,
Hold back the sickles!
Millions of children
Born to their mothers’ womb,
Starved at the nipple, cry,–
Ours is the harvest!
Millions of women
Learned in the tragical
Secrets of poverty,
Sweated and beaten, cry,–
Hold back the sickles!
Millions of men
With a vestige of manhood,
Wild-eyed and gaunt-throated,
Shout with a leonine
Accent of anger,
Leaves us the wheat-fields!
When will the reapers
Strike in their sickles?
Ask not the question;
Something tremendous
Moves to the answer.
Long have they sharpened
Their fiery, impetuous
Sickles of carnage,
Welded them aeons
Ago in the mountains
Of suffering and anguish;
Hearts were their hammers
Blood was their fire,
Sorrow their anvil,
(Trusty the sickle
Tempered with tears;)
Time they had plenty-
Harvests and harvests
Passed them in agony,
Only a half-filled
Ear for their lot;
Man that has taken
God for a master
Made him a law,
Mocked him and cursed him,
Set up this hunger,
Called it necessity,
Put in the blameless mouth
Juda’s language:
The poor ye have with you
Always, unending.
But up from the impotent
Anguish of children,
Up from the labor
Fruitless, unmeaning,
Of millions of mothers,
Hugely necessitous,
Grew by a just law
Stern and implacable,
Art born of poverty,
The making of sickles
Meet for the harvest.
And now to the wheat-fields
Come the weird reapers
Armed with their sickles,
Whipping them keenly
In the fresh-air fields,
Wild with the joy of them,
Finding them trusty,
Hilted with teen.
Swarming like ants,
The Idea for captain,
No banners, no bugles,
Only a terrible
Ground-bass of gathering
Tempest and fury,
Only a tossing
Of arms and of garments;
Sexless and featureless,
(Only the children
Different among them,
Crawling between their feet,
Borne on their shoulders;)
Rolling their shaggy heads
Wild with the unheard-of
Drug of the sunshine;
Tears that had eaten
The half of their eyelids
Dry on their cheeks;
Blood in their stiffened hair
Clouted and darkened;
Down in their cavern hearts
Hunger the tiger,
Leaping, exulting;
Sighs that had choked them
Burst into triumphing;
On they come, Victory!
Up to the wheat-fields,
Dreamed of in visions
Bred by the hunger,
Seen for the first time
Splendid and golden;
On they come fluctuant,
Seething and breaking,
Weltering like fire
In the pit of the earthquake,
Bursting in heaps
With the sudden intractable
Lust of the hunger:
Then when they see them-
The miles of the harvest
White in the sunshine,
Rushing and stumbling,
With the mighty and clamorous
Cry of a people
Starved from creation,
Hurl themselves onward,
Deep in the wheat-fields,
Weeping like children,
After ages and ages,
Back at the mother the earth.
Night in the valley,
Gloom on the mountain,
Wind in the wheat,
Far to the southward
The flutter of lightning,
The shudder of thunder;
But high at the zenith,
A cluster of stars
Glimmers and throbs
In the gasp of the midnight,
Steady and absolute,
Ancient and sure
A hut near a river – Poem by Neela Nath
Hut near the river
Black water river , co. Cork
Where I want to live
with you my seventh heaven,
is not far from this everyday
life, but very near to it..
A hut, near a river
with crystal water,
fish playing there on
sunbathed pebbles…..
You and me with our little
daughter will live a
calm, calm life..
Over there we shall see
the forest, away from that
winding path.
You will be back
in the evening,
and I shall watch
you coming eagerly…..
None will come on our way
to happiness!
No feud will be there.
No flame,
other than ours!
A hut near a river,
the trees, blooming plants,
will enhance our happiness….
You, me and daughter,
three will be drinking
from the tumbler of life….
The flavor of Nature…
You, Me and…..
Irish Landscape(Kilkenny) with a Poem : Independent Heart , by Jodie Moore
Independent Heart
Soft words you spoken
From the heart that is broken
I know deep inside
You have a level of independence
With a mystery of suspense
You are recovering
Waiting for someone
To catch on to the discovering
Of the real you
With a heart so true
Giving of your best
Expecting nothing less
While hurt is making amends
Leaning on loving friends
Accounted for in time you spend
With words you write
Not giving into a broken hearts flight
Staying strong
Carrying others like me along
by Jodie Moore
Monday Poetry : You Haven’t Seen The Last Of Us
You Haven’t Seen The Last Of Us
By : Lady Ravenwolf
Do as you will and harm none, ever mind the rule of three
Is one of the most important rules of the wiccan reed
Lets take a look back in history
Ways of the old lost within time
All but forgotten, shrouded in mystery
They were a peaceful kind
Yet thousands met such an untimely demise
The ultimate betrayal of mankind
She’s a witch, they’d point and scream
Those were the burning times
You mortals forever ignorant
She is one of many
With blood line ever strong
Her daughters are alive and well
Apparently you missed a few
The witch seen before you
Is a new kind of breed
Dressed completely in black
Morning the death of sisters past
I will forget my own path
Dancing between the worlds
Choosing to walk the in the gray
My magic is powerful
Though I seek not to harm
I will protect what is me and mine
This will be a finial warning
It is most unwise to cross me
With the flick of my hand
A curse will be placed
With a piercing cackle heard
The Firewood Poem, By : Celia Congreve
The Firewood Poem
Beechwood fires are bright and clear
If the logs are kept a year,
Chestnut’s only good they say,
If for logs ’tis laid away.
Make a fire of Elder tree,
Death within your house will be;
But ash new or ash old,
Is fit for a queen with crown of gold
Birch and fir logs burn too fast
Blaze up bright and do not last,
it is by the Irish said
Hawthorn bakes the sweetest bread.
Elm wood burns like churchyard mold,
E’en the very flames are cold
But ash green or ash brown
Is fit for a queen with golden crown
Poplar gives a bitter smoke,
Fills your eyes and makes you choke,
Apple wood will scent your room
Pear wood smells like flowers in bloom
Oaken logs, if dry and old
keep away the winter’s cold
But ash wet or ash dry
a king shall warm his slippers by.
Irish mountains in Black and white , 6 images
Irish Mountain Photography
Nigel Borrington
Because Ireland is a small country (32,599 square miles), fitting into the State of Indiana, you are never that far from anywhere or any type of Landscape (Coast, rivers and Mountains).
I find it almost impossible to choose my favorite type of landscape but I do love getting up high above the fields and towns. There is something captivating about looking out over the views below and clearing your mind.
I also feel that Black and white photography is just perfect for these places, capturing only the tones of the landscape below and the big open sky’s above, filled with the ever changing moments that the Irish weather can bring.
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 Gods
Built for the human race, to mark its passing tomorrow.
Irish Mountains, A Gallery
Monday Poetry , Wild Woodbine By : Joan McBreen
Wild Woodbine
Joan McBreen
Wild woodbine was beyond my reach
in the thick hedges round Lough Gill.
The heavy scent filled the house for days
when my father brought it in
and it stayed fresh far longer
then meadowsweet.
Because I loved the delicate
pink and white wild rose
he picked it too, cursing the thorns, muttering
“it dies too soon,
you’d be better leaving it alone”.
Yet once, when my mother
swept its petals from the floor
I saw him rescue one
and place it carefully
in the small wallet
where he kept her photograph.
Wild Woodbine
Before the mountain, Poem By :Myochi Roko & Sherry Chayat, 1990
Before the mountain, by the grace of nature
I was allowed to realize “Oh!I am only a child!”
tendered by spruce and birds.
I saw without my usual defenses
and endless thinking.
I know anything or everything
coming between me and creation.
– Myochi Roko Sherry Chayat, 1990
Slievenamon, County Tipperary
Monday Poetry : Advice from a Tree, By : Ilan Shamir
Advice from a Tree
By Ilan Shamir
Dear Friend,
Stand Tall and Proud
Sink your roots deeply into the Earth
Reflect the light of a greater source
Think long term
Go out on a limb
Remember your place among all living beings
Embrace with joy the changing seasons
For each yields its own abundance
The Energy and Birth of Spring
The Growth and Contentment of Summer
The Wisdom to let go of leaves in the Fall
The Rest and Quiet Renewal of Winter
Feel the wind and the sun
And delight in their presence
Look up at the moon that shines down upon you
And the mystery of the stars at night.
Seek nourishment from the good things in life
Simple pleasures
Earth, fresh air, light
Be content with your natural beauty
Drink plenty of water
Let your limbs sway and dance in the breezes
Be flexible
Remember your roots
Enjoy the view!
Ode to the Coast , Poem By : John Cooper Clarke
Ode to the Coast
By : John Cooper Clarke
A big fat sky and a thousand shrieks
The tide arrives and the timber creaks
A world away from the working week
Ou est la vie nautique?
That’s where the sea comes in…
Dishevelled shells and shovelled sands,
Architecture all unplanned
A spade n bucket wonderland
A golden space, a Frisbee and
The kids and dogs can run and run
And not run in to anyone
Way out! Real gone!
That’s where the sea comes in
Impervious to human speech, idle time and tidal reach
Some memories you can’t impeach
A nice cuppa splosh and a round of toast
A cursory glance at the morning post
A pointless walk along the coast
That’s what floats my boat the most
That’s where the sea comes in….
That’s where the sea comes in
Endless Streams and Mountains
Endless Streams and Mountains
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Endless Streams and Mountains
Clearing the mind and sliding in
to that created space,
a web of waters steaming over rocks,
air misty but not raining,
seeing this land from a boat on a lake
or a broad slow river,
coasting by.
The path comes down along a lowland stream
slips behind boulders and leafy hardwoods,
reappears in a pine grove,
no farms around, just tidy cottages and shelters,
gateways, rest stops, roofed but unwalled work space,
—a warm damp climate;
a trail of climbing stairsteps forks upstream.
Big ranges lurk behind these rugged little outcrops—
these spits of low ground rocky uplifts
layered pinnacles aslant,
flurries of brushy cliffs receding,
far back and high above, vague peaks.
A man hunched over, sitting on a log
another stands above him, lifts a staff,
a third, with a roll of mats or a lute, looks on;
a bit offshore two people in a boat.
The trail goes far inland,
somewhere back around a bay,
lost in distant foothill slopes
& back again
at a village on the beach, and someone’s fishing.
Rider and walker cross a bridge
above a frothy braided torrent
that descends from a flurry of roofs like flowers
temples tucked between cliffs,
a side trail goes there;
.
a jumble of cliffs above,
ridge tops edged with bushes,
valley fog below a hazy canyon.
A man with a shoulder load leans into the grade.
Another horse and a hiker,
the trail goes up along cascading streambed
no bridge in sight—
comes back through chinquapin or
liquidambars; another group of travelers.
Trail’s end at the edge of an inlet
below a heavy set of dark rock hills.
Two moored boats with basket roofing,
a boatman in the bow looks
lost in thought.
Hills beyond rivers, willows in a swamp,
a gentle valley reaching far inland.
The watching boat has floated off the page.
Wild Orchids – Three Poems for Friday…..
Patricia Drake
Feb 26, 2013
Orchids
She had tried to grow them
For years she had watched others
How they had theirs
Bloom
But nothing happened in her
Windowsill
Now they sat there
Beautiful and vibrant
For all to admire
Through her window
Forever perfect
Sewn
Not grown
EP Mason
Jan 2, 2014
The organs of orchids
I hope that when I die
the insides of me
are placed into
the insides of the needy
so that they can bloom like flowers
And the rest of me
is buried with the Earth
so the prettiest flowers can grow from my bones
and bloom in my soul
knowing I gave my life to nature
and all her children
Marie-Chantal
Ireland’s Wild Orchids
Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.
The gardener’s son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.
I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady’s Tresses
Made me think of you.
Nigel Borrington 
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