Tag Archives: Wild Atlantic Way

Thorny Garden of Eden

Not for me dull sodden land

Disturbed by upcroppings

Of white thorny mayflower

With cattle splurging their way home.

But for me a place

With white rocky back glistening

Under the raw red setting sun.

A hump backed stranded island

Amid sparkling sea and shimmering sky.

A mere bone of earth

Keeping itself afloat

While stripping me of unnecessaries.

A keeper of spring gentian and campion

Storm stranded sparrow hawk,

Arctic tern and sun seeking swallow.

Yes, for me this sun faded picture

Of bleached rock, bleached sand and sky

That I can touch and see and feel and know

With the sureness of earthly instinct

That in this thorny garden of Eden

Is all that is life to me.

Catherine Conneely Poem

Poem: Catherine Conneely. Image: JesseJames

A new stock of porter

A new stock of porter was brought in this morning to the little public house underneath my room and I could hear in the intervals of our talk that a number of men had come in to treat some neighbours from the middle island, and singing many songs, some of them in English of the kind I have given, but most of them in Irish. A little later when the party broke downstairs, my old men got nervous about the fairies – they live some distance away – and set off across the sand hills – JM Synge, The Aran Islands (1906).

Cathaoir JesseJames

A seat located on a beach on Inis Oírr where the artists found inspiration.

JesseJames Seat

It is said that this was JesseJames’s favourite seat on Inis Oírr. Situated on Trá Caorach and overlooking An Sunda Ó Dheas, the sound between Inis Oírr and the cliffs of Moher, they sat here while they were reflecting on their art.

 

 

Ancient Ways

The ancient ways are going

For the old woman knows words

In Gaelic, her grandchildren don’t,

Their Irish, modern, anglicised,

Hers bound to the earth

Carved by it as the rock underfoot.

The currachs like discarded shells

Of black backed beetles

Lie rotting in the sand.

The well-worn paths once woven

Into the landscape by feet

Are now mudded and gouged by tractor

Tyres no longer bordered

By smooth, soft margins,

Once home to wild garlic and primrose.

The Arctic Tern still finds a shelter

As does the Cuckoo and the Swallow

But the Corncrake left long ago.

Grey rock, grey sand, grey sky

Still the same, not yet scarred

But there’s a change in the wind

For the ancient ways are going,

Blowing away.

The ancient ways are going

Poem: Catherine Conneely. Image: JesseJames