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
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.
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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.
A Fellow Man , A Humanist Poem : Tom White
Nikon D700, 35mm f2.8 lens
The doors of, Santa Maria Degli Angeli, Rome.
Photography by : Nigel Borrington
A Fellow Man
A Humanist Poem : Tom White
I have no prayers or charms of faith
If God there be, He’ll know my weight
If God be nought, I’ll still do good
And practice justice as I should
We should not seek reward to do
What decency expects us to
Should Heaven be a kingly court
I’ll go elsewhere to prove my worth
Don’t get me wrong – I’ve sought belief
But lust for faith brought no relief
Mere logic leaves me where I stand
I am not blest, nor am I damned
I seek to do what good I can
I am your friend, a fellow man.
The Jackdaw, by : William Cowper
Jackdoors at Kells Priory, County Kilkenny
Irish Wildlife Photography : Nigel Borrington
The Jackdaw
by : William Cowper
There is a bird who, by his coat
And by the hoarseness of his note,
Might be supposed a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch,
And dormitory too.
Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate
From what point blows the weather.
Look up — your brains begin to swim,
‘Tis in the clouds — that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.
.
Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence securely sees
The bustle and the rareeshow,
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.
.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.
.
He sees that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs and its businesses,
Is no concern at all of his,
And says — what says he? — Caw.
.
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men;
And, sick of having seen ’em,
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine
And such a head between ’em.
Beyond the Sea, Poem by Thomas Peacock.
Fujifilm X100
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Beyond the Sea
Thomas Peacock
Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,
My heart is gone, far, far from me;
And ever on its track will flee
My thoughts, my dreams, beyond the sea.
Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,
The swallow wanders fast and free:
Oh, happy bird! were I like thee,
I, too, would fly beyond the sea.
Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,
Are kindly hearts and social glee:
But here for me they may not be;
My heart is gone beyond the sea.
November comes And November goes, a Poem by Elizabeth Coatsworth.
Autumn colours in county Kilkenny,
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
November comes
– Elizabeth Coatsworth
November comes And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
Harbour Lighthouse, Crinan, Scotland, (Harbour Lights) Poem by Ernestine Northover.
Harbour Lighthouse, Crinan, Argyll, Scotland
Landscape photography: Nigel Borrington
Harbour Lights
By: Ernestine Northover
The harbour lights are beckoning,
Our stout boat is riding high,
By the distant view, we’re reckoning,
We are nearly home and dry.
We’ve travelled many an ocean,
And weathered storms so wild,
Of the seas, we have a notion,
By it all, we’ve been beguiled.
There’ve been times when we have wavered,
And times when concern was rife,
Many moments we have savoured,
And pondered upon this life.
But seafaring days are our days,
And when all is said and done,
These seas attract, in such special ways,
And conquering them can be fun.
But, like now, we’re to base returning,
Friends and family to meet and greet,
There’s a rest from the sea’s endless churning,
Somewhere solid to plant our feet.
Now the harbour lights are gleaming,
And the sails relax their strain,
Our faces begin their beaming,
For we’re safely back home again.
© Ernestine Northover
Sunrise from the Mountains, By : Anna Katherine Green (1846-1935)
Sigma x3 slr camera, 18-50mm f3.5 – f4.5 lens
Slievenamon, county Tipperary
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Sunrise from the Mountains, By : Anna Katherine Green (1846-1935)
Hung thick with jets of burning gold, the sky
Crowns with its glorious dome the sleeping earth,
Illuminating hill and vale. O’erhead,
The nebulous splendor of the milky way
Stretches afar; while, crowding up the heavens,
The planets worship ‘fore the thrones of God,
Casting their crowns of gold beneath His feet.
It is a scene refulgent! and the very stars
Tremble above, as though the voice divine
Reverberated through the dread expanse.
But soft! a change!
A timid creeping up of gray in east–
A loss of stars on the horizon’s verge–
Gray fades to pearl and spreads up zenithward,
The while a wind runs low from hill to hill,
As if to stir the birds awake, rouse up
The nodding trees, and draw off silence like
A garment from the drowsy earth. The heavens
Are full of points of light that go and come
And go, and leave a tender ashy sky.
The pearl has pushed its way to north and south,
Save where a line spun ‘tween two peaks at east,
Gleams like a cobweb silvered by the sun.
It grows–a gilded cable binding hill
To hill! it widens to a dazzling belt
Half circling earth, then stretches up on high–
A golden cloth laid down ‘fore kingly feet.
Thus spreads the light upon the heavens above,
While earth hails each advancing step, and lifts
Clear into view her rich empurpled hills,
To keep at even beauty with the sky.
The neutral tints are deeply saffroned now;
In streaks, auroral beams of colored light
Shoot up and play about the long straight clouds
And flood the earth in seas of crimson. Ah,
A thrill of light in serpentine, quick waves,
A stooping of the eager clouds, and lo,
Majestic, lordly, blinding bright, the sun
Spans the horizon with its rim of fire!
Old Houses – A poem by, Robert Cording
Old cottage, Bansha, county Tipperary
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Old Houses
By Robert Cording
Year after year after year
I have come to love slowly
how old houses hold themselves—
before November’s drizzled rain
or the refreshing light of June—
as if they have all come to agree
that, in time, the days are no longer
a matter of suffering or rejoicing.
I have come to love
how they take on the color of rain or sun
as they go on keeping their vigil
without need of a sign, awaiting nothing
more than the birds that sing from the eaves,
the seizing cold that sounds the rafters.
Images from a walk in the setting Autumn sun and a Poem by Rebecca Dobson .
Nikon D700
Sleivenamon, country Tipperary
Under the setting Autumn sun
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
On an Autumn evening as I was out walking with our dog , I watched the sunset over the mountaim of Slievenamon, county Tipperary in the distance.
My mind was clear as I was just enjoying the view.
I have been looking for a way to describe the feeling I had and found the following Poem .
The Aftermath
Rebecca Dobson
The final fragments of my shattered
mind slip into place
alongside
Random thoughts and jagged
edges
I disintegrate from the outside inwards
slightly blurred
edges
and I flutter inside
(excited child) , I feel hollow and empty and a
warmth, and my nose is raw
and crystals gather at my nostrils
Electric, almost static
I float and fumble
and agitations tickle my spine and my scalp
Sniff and cough, they grate against my brain
and scratch discomfort into my buzz;
I float on higher plane
and feel conscious, feel able.
.
I talk with a wired mouth
and words are laborious and stick to my lips
Suspended in wakefulness I skip work
and relish in my openness of mind
and free thought
and I think I am happy
Images of a Winters Message – Poem by Mark R Slaughter
Images from a Kilkenny winter
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
A Winter Message
By : Mark R Slaughter
A flake of snow in flurry thro’ the air
Had landed as a kiss upon my cheek:
A secret message, just for me to share;
.
To take to heart but never dare to speak
About or presuppose to other eyes
Your open feelings – distant though they are.
And so, upon my own surprise:
A flake of snow returned from me afar.
.
The Lighthouse – by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
Sigma Sd15, 15-30mm lens
Dungarvan Lighthouse, County Waterford
Irish Landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
The Lighthouse
By, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
And on its outer point, some miles away,
The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.
Even at this distance I can see the tides,
Upheaving, break unheard along its base,
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
In the white lip and tremor of the face.
And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
Through the deep purple of the twilight air,
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light
With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare!
Not one alone; from each projecting cape
And perilous reef along the ocean’s verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,
Holding its lantern o’er the restless surge.
Like the great giant Christopher it stands
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
The night-o’ertaken mariner to save.
And the great ships sail outward and return,
Bending and bowing o’er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,
They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.
They come forth from the darkness, and their sails
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,
And eager faces, as the light unveils,
Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.
The Red Barn Remembers
Fujifilm x100
The old red barn. kells, county Kilkenny
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
The Red Barn Remembers
The red barn stands, silhouetted against the sky.
A tree wraps its young limbs about her
as if to protect her from time and age.
Her roof is sagging, color faded ,
An errant plume of red along her frame.
.
Yet, proudly she stands, remembrance of a happy time.
Shelter from the rain, children
Playing in her hair, lovers hiding in her shadows.
Beauty I see now, not bright, not boastful.
With dignity and respect she bows to age.
October In The Mountains
Slievenamon, a mountain in october
irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
October In The Mountains
by : Aletha Rappaport
The North Wind does blow,
His chilly fingers on my face
Tell me it is time to go –
To leave our mountain home
And seek a warmer clime
Before ice forms on the lake.
How can winter be so close?
The woods are alive with color –
.
Yellow, yellow and more yellows
Of every shade and hue –
Reds and orange, browns and russet too.
Autumn having her last fling
Before submitting to Winter’s icy sting.
The Waterwheel, by Jalaluddin Rumi
Nikon D300
The Waterwheel at kells, County Kilkenny
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
The Waterwheel
Stay together, friends.
Don’t scatter and sleep.
Our friendship is made
of being awake.
The waterwheel accepts water
and turns and gives it away,
weeping.
That way it stays in the garden,
whereas another roundness rolls
through a dry riverbed looking
for what it thinks it wants.
Stay here, quivering with each moment
like a drop of mercury.
Sunday evening Poem
Fuji film x100
Kilkenny landscape view
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Today is the tomorrow
By Neol Cronin
Always on the horizon but never here,
Travelling towards, but never near,
Never sure of what’s in store
No matter what, we will always want more.
Tomorrow’s a day, full of great hope,
Because maybe today, we just cannot cope.
Tomorrow is the day, to us no-one can give.
Tomorrow is the day, we will never live.
.
Our being is the present, the here and now.
Our hope – is tomorrow, somewhere, somehow
Tomorrow’s the pipedream, we have today
Today is the tomorrow, we sought yesterday.
Now that Autumn has begun (Two Autumn Poems)
Autumn colours in the Landscape
Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
Autumn
By : Dorian Petersen Potter
Autumn comes singing in
Displaying her treasures’ galore.
So prettily dressed she grins
Spreading more beauty than before
She transforms the trees one by one,
She paints their leaves with new hues.
There’s a different kind of fun,
Now that Autumn has begun
.
There’s a magic in the air,
In the smells and all the colors.
Cool breeze plays with my hair,
While her beauty I just stare!
Autumn has come back at my door,
What a sight! It’s the season I adore
.
Amber Glow
By : Wesley Mincin
Red and yellow painted leaves
hang idly within the trees
They break and sail along the breeze
As fires of Autumn’s time
They dance and surf upon the ground
Overlap each other with ruffling sound
A setting I am glad I found
As fires of Autumn’s time
Like fires of the Autumn season
they leap and dance without a reason
A factor of Autumns many seasons
As fires of Autumn’s time’
The grey clouds break, the sun appears
The dancing leaves appear to sere
These flames its kept for many years
As fires of Autumn’s time
My Land
Fujifilm X100
The Landscape of county Kilkenny, Ireland
Irish Landscape Photography : Nigel Borrington
My Land
By Thomas Davis
She is a rich and rare land;
Oh! she’s a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land–
This native land of mine.
No men than her’s are braver–
Her women’s hearts ne’er waver;
I’d freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.
She’s not a dull or cold land;
No! she’s a warm and bold land;
Oh! she’s a true and old land–
This native land of mine.
Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border–
No friend within it pine!
Oh! she’s a fresh and fair land;
Oh! she’s a true and rare land;
Yes! she’s a rare and fair land–
This native land of mine.
Who Has Seen the Wind ?
Who Has Seen the Wind
Irish landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
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)
The crows will only grow louder, poem: Laura Breidenthal
A crow flying in-front of Slievenamon, County Tipperary
Landscape and nature photography : Nigel Borrington
The crows will only grow louder
By : Laura Breidenthal
There is no celestial place for you to guide my thoughts
Can you not see that I am free from you?
I am a crow perched high in the treetops
You will hear my crowing and you may hate it
But, you cannot take away my voice!
Yet still, as fire oppresses forests of life,
You can abuse my freedom to find your glory
You may discard these words for your love of gods,
And in so doing you may simply ignore
All the cries that I so passionately utter
But my infectious species will guide your mind straight back
To that once so lonely treetop where you merely glanced
And there will be multitudinous, oppressing thoughts
That shall enslave you and bind you unwillingly
The crows will only grow louder when you turn away—
When you pretend to ignore with your remaining, strangling pride
For my voice is a production sent from above
Dispatched to judge you pitilessly for your swelling lies!
And the choirs of ferocious beaks shall open forever
Harmony and dissonance as one
Strolling down memory lane, a poem by : Taran Burke
Canon G1x
Newtown lane, County Kilkenny
Kilkenny landscape photography : Nigel Borrington
Strolling down memory lane
By : taran burke
Strolling down memory lane
Where the colors begin to fade.
Strolling down memory lane
Is where I want you to come along.
Strolling down memory lane
is a test of time and mind.
Strolling down memory lane
I won’t be afraid.
Strolling down memory lane
Is lacking in color.
Strolling down memory lane
Is travelling in time.
Strolling down memory lane
Not a storm in sight
Strolling down memory lane
is joy without fright.
A memory that I have created in my mind,
Stands the test of time.
Nigel Borrington 
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