By John O'Donohue
During this new number of poetry, John O'Donohue explores the normal and emotional panorama of his local Conamara County, revealing a pastoral imaginative and prescient that's either own and common, mystical and of this global. O'Donohue's instinctive knowledge of the contrasts of his land -- its locations of sunshine and darkness, its pursuits and its stillness -- is magically delivered to existence in his richly lyrical but deceptively obvious language.Translating the sweetness and attractiveness of Conamara right into a language exquisitely attuned to the sweetness of the typical, O'Donohue takes us on a relocating trip via genuine and imagined worlds. Divided into 3 components -- Approachings, Encounters, and Distances -- Conamara Blues right away reawakens a feeling of intimacy with the flora and fauna and a sense of ask yourself on the secret of our dating to this global. even if exploring the silent, everlasting reminiscence of Conamara or concentrating on the ability of language and the vagaries of human desire and keenness, O'Donohue tenderly finds the delicate vulnerability of affection andfriendship. the result's a musical, transcendent, and deeply relocating sequence of poems that exemplifies O'Donohue at his finest.Written with penetrating perception and distilled transparence, Conamara Blues deals a novel and lasting resourceful imaginative and prescient of a panorama of wish and probability -- powerfully showing the mastery of a poet on the top of his lyric powers.
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Additional info for Conamara Blues
Raindrops filter through leaves, silver the air, Wash off the film of dust to release nets Of fragrance on which the wind can sweeten Before expiring among the debris That brightens each year with fallen colour Before the weight of winter seals the ground.
54 Wings For Josie Whenever a goose was killed, My mother got the two wings. They were placed on the rack Over the black Stanley range And taken down to sweep Around the grate and the floor. Local women said: no matter How you sprinkled it, every time You’d sweep a concrete floor, You’d get more off it. As if, deep down, There was only dust. Often during sweeping, A ray of light Through the window 55ç Would reveal How empty air Could hold a wall Of drunken dust. Instead of being folded around Each side of a living body, Embracing the warmth And urgency of a beating heart, The wings are broken objects now, Rubbed and rubbed, edge down Into an insatiable floor, Smothered and thinned, Until they become ghost feathers Around a cusp of bone Polished by motherly hand.
To be outside in the dawn before people were, Letting the blue tides of your dreaming settle ashore. The village said you put the whole thing into his head. In the glow of your silence, the heart grows tranquil. No one will ever know where you had to travel. D I S T A N C E S The antelope are the only creatures swift enough to catch the distance. —Louise Erdrich Every thought should recall the ruin of a smile. —E. M. Cioran Because the outer walls of God are glass. —Anne Carson ? 52 Words For Ethel and Sheila Words may know the way to reach the dark Where the wild sweetness of a hillside Is distilled in a hive under grass.
Conamara Blues by John O'Donohue