New blogger

Whoa,

I've just spent about an hour trying to get in here to post. Since it's been quite a while since my last post, (no computer)I guess an hour more wasn't too bad. Anyway, I am trying to find out how to make a webcast, but haven't gotten through all that's needed.

Today is a very cold day, we've had hail and the news even showed us the snowplows that are ready to go in Dublin if we get the snowfall that is expected. All very reassuring if you live in Dublin that is. There wasn't much noise coming about all the other counties that may need snowplowing, but we'll see what happens.

When I eventually get to the webcast thing, you'll hear this poem, but for now, just black and white.

Premonition

In a freeze frame
moment
you know what's happening.

A snake coils,
the hair on a cat's back is raised,
a Doberman's jaw snaps open

One intuitive flash-

As in the moment before
a first
kiss
is attained.


Theresa Daly
Copyright 2000

Shadow

Shadow

Death
without death,
life
without life;

the ghost that
haunts me
has not yet
become spirit;

fully fleshed,
in human form-
he walks the town
all around me.



Theresa Daly

High above Muckross

Hey, the sun is back and I'm going to soak it up. Here's a poem about my second favorite county: Kerry.

High Above Muckross

Put me there
when I’m gone.
that place in Killarney
where cousin Maureen
and Aunt Kathleen
lay-high
above Muckross.

Where they
watch the
wild Atlantic
waves crash against
the cliffs

and white sea-foam
slides
across the strand
the way
a lover’s tongue
licks
the others spine.

forget the granite
headstone-
too hard and cold
for me.

Have Johnny
down the market
carve from
bog oak
a Bridget’s’ cross,

set it against
the bright
yellow glow
of whin.

let it
curl its
finger up
and beckon all


to breathe
this coconut scented
incense of
my grave.

have the fairies
fiddle from
fuscia petals
and gently
blow through reeds;

and don’t forget
to scatter shamrocks
around the whin
to tickle my
face and toes.

Theresa Daly

Under Hogan's Willow

Two women were talking in the shop the other day.

"Sure won't belong now till the races"
"That's right races and then the summers over"
"Right you are. Races, then ready for school, school opens and the shops have the Christmas stuff out"
"Agh now"
"It's true, I'm tellen' ya. Went to the shops last year for the Halloween gear,which they had of course; the very next row was lined with the tree decorations."
"Ah, go on"
"Honest to God"
"Sickening!"
"That it is"

There you have it, already they're talking about Christmas and it's not even July.

Here's an end of summer/autumn poem:

Under Hogan’s Willow

The lover’s cheeks
puff syllables
of loyalty pure,
bleached;

b’neath the shaded eave
of Hogan’s willow,

before the kissing ends
and the flailing of arms
the maiming of promises
begin.



Theresa Daly

Track

Yup, it was one hell of a summer. The rain has returned and all is normal again. Well, sort of...

Any way, not much to say, so will leave a poem that goes with today's weather





Track


The sparkle in the lough
has dulled, its luminous water
now mud green speckle.

Trudging up yesterdays
effortless path I pace this
landscape alone as I used to.

Once majestic reeds
convert to
choking weeds.

An empty space replaces you
in this lifelong version
of music-less chairs.

Again it's one
shadow cast and
paling in the waning sun.

Theresa Daly

Connection

Unbelievable!!! Another scorcher, another sunny day in Galway Bay. People coming back from their holidays are pale in comparison to the locals. Everyone is aglow; some red,some brown, but shiny and sunkissed. O.K. I'll stop. It's just such a phenomenon.

blogpoem for today:

Connection

The heart channel flies
open again
emotions thunder
through its chambers
as your breath reawakens
and connects to this frozen soul

which was locked
away for years
unstirred, yet safe.

You’ve broken through
the vault
of my heart.

The door is open
I quiver in the cobwebs of old fears,
try to shout
“I’m not coming”

powerless to resist
as you pull
me out to dance
again.

Theresa Daly

Cats

Amazing! More sun, yes; all day long and not a cloudstrip in the sky. Predicted for the next few days. There's nothing like Galway on a sunny day. The light, is hard to explain. Imagine the brightest blue, a big ball of sun spinning dazzling lace patterns of sunlight, and loads of 'happy shiny people'.

Needless to say, I'm going to run off this machine and soak it up.

Poem for today:

Cats

I wonder what they think;
the two of them sitting
face to face;
Gypsy & Zuzu

the two cats,
brother and sister,
incestuous parents,
lion & lioness.

Do they talk to one
another as we do?
You know, the gossip
the small talk.

Do they whisper
from their perches about
how stingy I am for not
overfeeding them?

Sneer at guests they
don’t like, figure out
who’ll go home
with who?

Do they intuitively know
what each of us is like
without inquisitive
conversations?

Or are they merely
the creatures they seem;
sleeping, eating,
ever preening?

Theresa Daly

Claddagh Solstice

The other night a friend of mine came back to the house after having pint in Neachtains. He seemed a bit perturbed. Seems he was having a fag and conversation in Irish outside with another smoker.

Another fella (Irish accent himself)comes out and sneered a nasty comment about them
"Still speaking that foreign language?" and something about how they should be speaking English.

Needless to say,your man was barking up the wrong tree in the wrong town for that sort of comment because; from what I know, English is the foreign language. He was lucky in the fact that he was rude to two civilised Galway folk, native speakers.

So, wet noodle slap for the day goes to the fella who probably failed Irish on his leaving.

Blogpoem for today:


Claddagh Solstice


A hooker docked
in the basin
sways in the wake of wild swans
who nibble from the red
gloved hand of a tourist.

A watercolour sky;
streaked and spiked
with Monet’s light frames
the locals lifting lobster
pots talking simple talk-
this Claddagh summer solstice

In the distance, a silver bladed
windmill swirls as we amble
past a field of lemon yellow flowers
“cattle poisoning weeds ”you say.

A granite stone, sun soaked, shapes
a warmer seat than slate.

Talking endlessly, the conversation hovers;
we tiptoe beyond comfy boundaries
knowing we’ve tapped a fissure
in this fragile eggshell of intimacy.

Overhead a giant gull soars,
racing the cormorant to the sea



Theresa Daly

Draught

Rain rain rain. All day long! Big thick steady drops. Beware the monsoon on Raven Terrace outside the Weigh Inn, I saw a car go by and a wave of about two feet high just missed spraying a fella havin' a fag outside. So, I'm going to dig for a poem about the rain-God knows there's a good few in my book.





DRAUGHT

The rain sleeps
yet another morning,
another week;
there’s a thirst
in the fields.

It goes on
for ages
this July
and come
evening late
August;

A grey swell,
fingers clenched
rumbles across
the sky
squeezing
porous clouds;

It comes
again
this rain
that scents the air
and feeds the fields,

this time we
welcome it.

Promise

Promise

I promise to tell you someday
when I can let the words
slip through the gates of my lips;

when I’ve inhaled a
breath deep enough
to push out the words

if words are what it takes
to let you know
the depth of my love.

Theresa Daly

Young Junkie

Fiercely trembling,
the young junkie
crouched in the shell
of his uncle’s brownstone stoop
at 70th and York.

He looked up at
the iron cast terraces
meticulously lined;
potted flowers,
exotic plants.

His pale skin glowed
in the streetlamp,
his face dampened
in a sheath
of sweat,
breathing shallow,

he remembered
going to church
on Sunday mornings,
listening to Fr. Kelly’s
homilies,
the round brown
eyes of his mother
when she’d sing
to him in
the tub
as a boy.

The young junkie shivered,
closed his eyes
and drifted towards
the light.
His mother’s voice
grew steady,
louder.


Theresa Daly

Weary Fingers

Weary Fingers

The streetlamp, still aglow
Casts a gloss over the footpath.
The orange light of morning gushes through the bedroom window,
Your weary fingers scramble for the lightswitch
As the seagull swoops for prey.

Somewhere long ago,
You marched through the fields of DeNang
Twitching at the eyes of children concealing weapons,
Your nervous fingers flinching the trigger startled,
as their weeping mothers fall and pray.


Theresa Daly

Moonbeams

Moonshadow in Violet
12"x 10" x 2" acrylic on canvas



















Moonbeams


Where are you tonight
this first glimpse of
spring? The night all
balmy, the moon full-

Jupiter sparking up
beside it, a cloudless
sky ablaze, bathed
in its glow;

the air, sweet scented
and light, sponge-cake
and springy, I want
to walk to the water

to wake the swans,
take to the swings;
to growl, to howl-for you to
slither into me;

but it is late
or early in the morning,
and no longer safe
to roam alone

and you are somewhere
between tomorrow and
yesterday; as far away as
moonbeams.


Theresa Daly