New Year Poems
Happy New Year, all.
I haven’t been on line so much over the winter. Not much to make one want to be, in many ways.
Anyway, I wrote a couple of poems on New Years Day, one a little more hopeful than the other.
Hope you like them.
Rewilding Little Lives
Flowers in my window box this New Years Day
Brought smiles to see flies upon the white petals
Delightfully drawn to pollinate these late blooms
Providing provender in winter and spring seeds.
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Insight that acts of rewilding can be so easy:
Simply leave a little land for life, and equally
Life will return once we allow it land, thus we
Keep everything alive a little longer by these
Little acts and actions, ceding some concrete
So when our concrete recedes life can yet proceed.
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Nothing Changes On New Year’s Day
We kiss at midnight and wish
One another the best, that
The world will rise above our
Worries with the coming year;
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Raise our champagne to celebrate
Our survival of the last, then we
Rest in unhurried slumber, until
The bells ring in the faithful for
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New year’s Service, and we
Step out to see too the debris,
Finding revellers have left their
Refuse in the most amazing places.
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Picking up a cracked plastic party
Trumpet, we ponder if we will play
These in the next decades, and stroll
Slowly to our sacred spaces, with
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A grim smile, while the sun slants low,
Watching Earth go round just the way
It spun yesterday, today.
If only Winter was the Old Winter
Embrace the Rain
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The ginkos are gone the colour of
Midsummer glare, fans finally falling.
Beeches now brilliant auburn, poplars
Drifting orange yellow instead of white
Cotton. Leaves lifted as easily in whipped-
Up gusts with rain against windows.
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The cold requires we bundle up
In gloves and hoods, but we embrace
Winter weather, smile with chapped lips,
Rubbing ruddy cheeks, like a proof
We’re not in so much trouble, perhaps
The world is not turning terribly
Scorching dry, desiccating all round us.
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We cling to this chill as an indication of
Lessened danger: deceiving ourselves,
Like lung cancer patients, counting dear
Cough-free hours as signs we’re in the clear.
A simple idea as autumn finally feels like it’s here, with plenty of rain these last few weeks.
But of course, it’s not quite winter, at least not winter as it was. In the local park, while the willows are shedding their leaves, these trees are coming in to bloom, as if it were February already…
Second Spring
Stop Awhile to Smile
Second spring seems to wreath
Earth’s skin instead of autumn.
Songbirds sing and bees visit
Flowers adorning leaves auburn.
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Trees sprouting catkins, as if
Winter isn’t imminent, and energy
Best invested in building up
Stores to see it through in utility.
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I, too, should be inside, busy
Through fall with words, building
For stores ‘ere the festive season.
But I’ll pause here as ev’ning’s gilding
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Landscape lying ‘neath green veneer,
To fill a vital store of good cheer.
So we’ve had what they call a little summer of St Martin… except it was a heatwave. We were up in the thirties every day for over a week, but since it’s October, it cooled during the longer nights down to the teens. And it seems some trees etc think it’s spring again, with the balanced hours of sun and the high temps. So stuff is spouting. Dandelions are dandy, but trees are just wasting energy.
The scenes, however, since we’ve had some rain in September so I just soaked it all up instead of working, which I should be, to re-edit and republish my first five adult novels.
More on that before Christmas!
Life is short. And it seems even the trees think so.
They say the weather is going to change today. I think it already has.
Heroes
Heroes is what we are, we cyclists. That’s what they call folk who save lives. And we save lives everyday.
Sometimes it’s the child who’s toddling along a street too far from their parents to be taken into arms should a car or a bike come round the corner, whose parents panic and send the kid wobbling in random directions. Often it’s a kid of ten or so who wanders into the bike lane without looking. It’s also not uncommon for an octogenarian to do the same.
The zombies staring at their mobiles as they shuffle along aren’t probably really alive, but we save them nonetheless, sometimes just standing on our pedals until they eventually become aware of the proximity of living flesh and look up at us with their hollow eyes, then take a step back in shock allowing us pass on our merry way.
But mostly, we save our own lives. Every single day, when we cross a street and see a car coming whose driver has no idea we’re about to arrive at the asphalt and we prudently pull up to let them pass, because they weren’t going to let us pass. We might get an apologetic wave when they realise their mistake. More often it’s a thank you, because we’ve let them pass as if we’d any other choice.
If we’re with a child, we’ve got to cycle alongside, instructing them to slow and stop, and sometimes having to reach out and hold them back so they don’t keep going out onto the street to their deaths. It’s sometimes line of sight, with cars too big nowadays, and their drivers often elderly and getting smaller all the time so they struggle to see a small bike and rider right in front of them.
On the other hand, even though they see us, they’ll accelerate to get to the crossing before we’re actually in front, so we’d only hit their side panels should we continue at our current speed.
The simple fact is that cars are killing machines driven by many inept to be in charge of such metal monstrosities, and every day they would kill us, regardless of any logical or ethical right we have and their responsibility to yield to us as weaker road users, except we keep ourselves alive.
And we deserve medals, one and all.
A Tale of Two Tragedies
Powerful Tragedies
Today the world wonders at the fate
Of five folk in some submarine
Searched for after going silent
During a two-fifty grand tour (entitled
Titan) of the Titanic – itself a lesson in
Fancy, dancing deckchairs –
In tiny imitation of that tragedy,
At the same time as we witness
Several hundred drown at sea
Within a rope’s throw off a trawler.
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One wonders if we’ll mourn the mates
Of Elon Musk when his rocket rips apart
Upon launch towards barren Mars,
While millions bake below upon
Our once bountiful, but burning planet
Beneath their billion dollar debris.
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I have no photos to illustrate this poem, written yesterday, since there are plenty of photos out there. I could have picked any idiotic man with too much money as easily as the man who ruined twitter, but he’s the one most vocal about going to Mars, which is in my opinion the first thing on the to-do list after just about everything else anyone can think of. It’s not like it’s not a good idea to explore, but robots and rovers don’t get cancer like humans do.
Slowing down Spring
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Slowing Down Spring
Leaden heavy clouds lay upon the land,
Slowing its spin, it seems, the wind
Whistling chill, winds back spring:
So all pauses, apparently, and allows us,
Perhaps, appreciate all a little longer:
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Continued calling of song thrushes,
Tree-creepers, warblers and woodpeckers;
The candle cones perched upon pines;
Chandeliers of chestnut blooms
Letting petals swirl to gather in drifts
And dropping fruits of tiny infant seeds;
New green sprigs on twigs of spruce trees;
Dandelions, the sign of spring, still
The dominant design of spring,
Drawing swarms of insects, revived
As running rivers; glowing gloss and
Ripples of graining barley, regaining
The aspect of May in Spain; golden
Sunspots, when rays sneak out of clouds,
That simply seep into souls like
Helium to help them soar…
Making every day a delayed delight
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We might not see for many more:
As spring shortens ever more and
Assimilates to frightful summer
Sooner than we’re prepared for.
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We had a few weeks with cooler temperatures, which was a big relief, even in Navarra. Not so much rain in many places, but it gave us time to really see the green before it turns to gold. Which it was threatening to too soon this hear – to dusty tan and brown, too. And it seems spring will shorten as we go forward into climate chaos.
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Of course, in our village the verges went brown after the council yet again sprayed it with glyphosphate… And one local farmer did the same to his field verges, which just ruins my day as I cycle up the hill…
Spring Springing, Sprung
The Great Unfurling
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Potted hydrangea upon a windowsill
Sets forth fresh leaves: tender, verdant
Sheets break out along dry sticks, fragile.
I daily watch them form as March marches.
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Granted the gift of infinity of seconds,
In observation, I wish to break out,
Past the patio to spend
Spring beyond, experience
Every plant’s rebirth and blossoming,
To miss not this great unwinding,
.
From forest floor, wild asparagus and
Ferns unfurling, breaking forth
Each bud, young leaves extending,
Spreading, fat fingered
Fronds from chestnut trunks;
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Witness every sprig of speedwell,
Burst of buttercups,
Spray of daisies, and breeze
Dancing dandelions, dainty dog violets.
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Later let me see the fall
Of flower petals to the path,
From each high floral bouquet:
Dashing with pink and white
The grass, creating a colourful carpet,
Delicate to delight our way,
.
Through this season; so short, yet
Too intense to appreciate the display.
Been a busy few weeks with little posting – though a fair bit of poetry and some writing, and lots of reading! But mostly just enjoying the spring, which is blooming lovely, if too dry in a lot of places.
I just spent the weekend down in Andalucia, and the heat is rising quickly there, so it’s almost summer, with swifts screaming in the skies already. On the train on the way down, it was clear many fields will give little harvest this year.
Spring is always my most distracted season and this year is no exception. or an exception to the extent that I’ve decided to spend as much time as I can just soaking it up, so I spent hours staring out the train window rather than writing or reading. Nevertheless, the words come, stored up for winter or spluttered out for a short poem.
Hope you like it.
PS, when I returned after the Easter Holidays the hydrangea was nearly dead, having been left unwatered. I gave it some and hope it will recover (it’s not mine, by the way!)
Little Victories
Well, this is a little victory in itself.
This book took a long time to get here.
I had the idea way back when I published The Soul of Adam Short, thinking about a YA novel set in Ireland, and the part of Ireland I know best is obviously South County Dublin and North Wicklow.
The problem of fires and farmers and the protection of nesting birds was something that started back then, and of course has kept going years later….
It merged with an idea I had when I was around 17….
The characters came separately, from a different inspiration.
It took a while to get the pen to paper, but my first typed document has a date of June 2015.
Then the first draft was done in 2018.
Yes. I can be 3 years on a book that’s only around 60k words!
I gave a copy of the third or fourth draft to my family – the younger ones – asking for feedback.
Crickets.
For a couple of years.
I got on with writing my long novel, Paul and the Pyramid Builders.
Then I asked my ex-publisher of Adam Short to have a look at it, and see if it was for the drawer.
She says it’s not.
So here it is. Edited and proof-read and ready for reviews.
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Here’s the blurb….
Nicky and her two new friends, Mark and Ash, spend spring racing their mountain bikes through south Dublin – both down hillsides and hitching rides from HGVs – and exploring their feelings towards one another. They’re aghast to one day find an illegal fire on the mountain, just set by a farmer. When the police say they can do nothing about it, the three determine to catch the culprit red-handed. But life is as complicated as love, and as Nicky comes to terms with this, she discovers that sometimes you have to accept whatever little victories come your way.
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It’s dedicated to my good friend Phil, no longer with us, who was a great man for the biking round south Dublin and Wicklow, though more on a road bike than mountain bike.
It’s on Pre Order now, and will be published before my birthday – Paddy’s Day to be exact.
March is when this novel kicks off, when the fires that beleaguer the Dublin and Wicklow mountains should be stopped rather than started.
Anyone who’s interested in a review copy can email me at davidjmobrienauthor@gmail.com
Happy St. David’s Day, everyone.
Don’t forget, if you see a brush fire in Ireland from today, it’s illegal.
Winter, as it Should Be
Somewhat as it Should Be
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Frozen fog has shut off any sights without the vale:
Only a few fields below the road and trees along:
Ash still green but paling, poplars rising glorious
In gold and rowan orange glowing. Goldfinches flee
But return easily to glean seeds to fuel against the cold
Ice clad grass banks and crown clods in shaded corners.
Chilled fingers fumble at the pen with these words, so I
Turn to the house, for use in clutching logs, and later,
Thawed to type by the fire, stopping by the spring
To fill the water bottle for a dram. The flow has not
Yet been helped by the recent rain and snow, I see,
But we’ve returned, somewhat, to winter as it should be.
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I wrote this a few weeks back, when the weather was a little different. It’s clear that this Christmas is not white in much of Europe, but it’s whiteout in much of North America…. neither exactly what anyone wants…
Well, anyway, happy Christmas. Hope you’re warm wherever you are.
Some News on Novels
It’s been a while since I published a new novel.
I hope to have a YA set in Ireland out in the new year.
Meanwhile, some news: I’ll shortly be getting my copyright back on the five novels published with Tirgearr Publishing.
Once I do, I will do my best to get them back up for sale on Amazon, first as Ebooks. I am considering publishing them in print as well, and I have to admit I am in two minds – if you have an ebook, then it’s best to just download them. But if not… well, I hope there are folks out there who’d love to read them in print… I will get back to you on that. If anyone wants to comment either way, feel free.
As we see the fall of Twitter, and the fact of Meta failing and the Facebook basically falling also into disuse by at least a large proportion of folks in my friends lists, I am thinking of where to actually connect to readers and friends, apart from just here.
It’s true that the life of a writer is always hard, and getting readers to pick up our books never easy. The social media space has made it possible for some of us to sell some of our work.
And yet, at the same time, the whole selling scape is not often our favourite space. I personally rarely go on Facebook now – and I am one of the few people on the planet who legitimately need such a space to stay in touch with all the lovely people I’ve come to know over the years in my real life travels round the world. I feel the threads tying us together getting slacker, though, thinner. And in some respects this is inevitable, It would happen faster without the internet, but eventually it will happen anyway, as the years stretch on and we all get older.
In other respects, writing is something I will do regardless of who reads the work, and I will do it (am doing it because of constraints of real life) in my own time, despite the marketing mantra of getting new books out in front of folks’ eyes and having series to pull them in.
If anyone reads my poems you’ll see that it is out in the real world of Nature that I am happiest, and the writing comes when I am not there, from ideas I get while I am.
Those writings will come, as long as I live, and if the history of art has taught us anything, it’s that fame and life are not necessarily concurrent. We can only enjoy the work, and worry about everything else after. Nor is financial return any indication of merit.
I will continue to post my blogposts to Facebook, but you’ll not find me there much otherwise, so if you want to get in touch the best is to comment on these posts here on WordPress, and to write me at davidjmobrienauthor@gmail.com
For when Twitter dies, I have joined Mastedon, and I here’s my page for anyone to follow: @David_J_OBrien@mastodon.ie
Meanwhile, here’s a poem I wrote a few years back. I think I might have posted it before, but it came to mind while writing this.
Enjoy
Threads
As we walk our world, we weave
A kind of tapestry about us:
Threads spread out, linking our lives
With those we meet.
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Wonderful, a wheel of whirling strands
Swirling about us like glinting gossamer
Whipped on morning breeze across sunlit fields;
The thoughts and talks and memories
Shared and cared for across continents
Over centuries.
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But ultimately bitter-sweet,
For they inevitably wear thin over time,
We often fail to keep all attended to
To stop them breaking,
Trailing, frail, forgotten in the tangle,
And even the strongest spun silk can snap:
Stretched taut across landscapes,
When we walk too far.
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Those we best attend to, too,
Weaken, and fade to invisibility
Eventually, severed, taken from us
When their own weaver leaves this ether.
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How long will our own cloth survive,
When we’re not here to hold it?
As those that know us no longer
Hold memory of what we told them,
About our many connections, never
Mind our own names, and actions,
Faint after just a generation.
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No wonder some strive to stencil
Their names in stone set into cathedrals,
Or indelibly upon a novel, poem or play
Which will carry on without us
When we’ve gone upon our way.
David JM O'Brien 