The Hag of Beara Ireland

While in Ireland I was inspired to write a poem about a most amazing woman, The Hag of Beara. Now a stone I devoted a full month to creating an installation performance piece at the Burren College of Art to her. Here is the poem I wrote.

Ahh yes, I have a story

Beauty crystallized

Suffering

trapped

forced to stagnate alive within this hideous stone form

Does it shock you to know I am alive?

I wither forced to hide alone   frozen

A hard granite shell merged with skin

So yes, I feel your pathetic pawing

And yet I remain invisible to you

Impervious to my shudders   Your hands like a boxers punch rest heavily upon my chest

tears brushed aside as sea foam

Let my cold body meet the sun’s warmth

Within beats a powerful rhythm

such an ugly lump of stone

Marrow bleeds and whispers

Darkness dances with damp decay

Branches grow thick with soft moss

can a heart break that no longer exits?

can visions cloud and clear or awaken only to death?

the wild Atlantic roars pounding the shore

foam forbidden fingers grasp for what is no longer there for he too has been banished

The god of the sea forbidden from reaching the rocky shore

His pain causes the sea to swell

if only this time

I no longer carry the scent of the sea

This rock coffin hides Sapphires and emeralds

a prison of stone fragile and dead

Yet, memories arise stories walk the island

A young and beautiful powerful warrior maiden gifted with powers beyond any mortal

An acrid sea salt scent gliding on the breeze

I am both beautiful and terrifying

Sea weed grasps for my ankles, thorns draw blood

darkness drips sheets of ruby

Dripping in rhythm I fall under a spell

Ghost of what was of all that had been

Lost words tangle in my hair twisting changing directions lifting and falling

Dripping ceases all sound

A soul shelter       Death                   is this how I recover?

I have grown old   Old,     no ancient ,

Yet I dance as a youth upon the cold damp sand

Shells open in anticipation dying as they huddle close

Mumble prayers to clouds

Wind whispers a command,” Tell me of your fears, tell me of your cares.”

Sea scented winds Head held high I enter the sea     wild waves entwine me   scrub me clean   until I once again am young and beautiful

Merely an echo

Howling winds dance in my ears repeating broken phrases

repeating broken words trapped in timeless moments

Seashells hide reason and thought no desire to be exposed to light

safe without a voice      Safe now                           Silent

Dying story written on decaying leaves

Secrets succumb

Words trapped in time mumble

Do not separate what belongs together

Desiccated corpses flounder

I want not your plastic baubles     I want to sore free

Rushing into the sea ice awakening my dead heart

The audacity   believing this granite entraps my soul

Do not be fooled by harsh cold wind   it is I

Ride the wind across the ocean searching lips give voice to my story

Past rests in the sand to blur all vision

A mix of wind and sand burning as if memory itself was not enough

gripped tightly in the fist of time, form and color alter, dust, no other worlds.

One wonders as the waves swell and the sea crashes only to appear as calm, is he awake?

Does he too stumble knowing not the night?

Anchored here as the Hag of Beara

Cover me with the sea and I shall once again be free.

 

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Ireland

After the idiot-elect appointing hate and more hate to office I think it is time to follow my dream. December I am off to Ireland for as long or short as I wish. Once across the ocean there are so many countries and places to explore and enjoy. Anyone open to a visit let me know I would love to meet you.

First I climbed up on the studio roof, Yea!!! Big courage but the other day I climbed up on the angled and weak trailer roof. This required 3 times climbing the ladder, readjusting the ladder’s position and finally climbing up with the supplies to repair the peaked roof.

So what did I do when I climbed down? Book passage to England and a flight to the east coast to board the ship. No plans, no dates to meet, or places to be.  Free to be me as the old school song says.

If you want to change your life simply climb a ladder to the roof.

Twisted Winds Halted

Forceful winds blow foreboding

no longer warnings.

The danger has arrived

Winds entangle lies, lies caught between the bamboo stalks

shattered promises, hope devastated,

broken scattered remnants.

Powerful winds unable to budge memories stuck in the quagmire of time.

No Milk

I have a very sad cup of tea tonight.

No milk.

Earl Grey

but…No milk

I’d say Goodbye if

Driving home I hear a country western song and one line was, “I’d say goodbye but I don’t remember her name.” I may not have quoted it correctly. He was singing about leaving in the morning but the woman he had spent the night with was still sleeping.

This post is about The Queen of Hearts. I spent 2 nights on the train sleeping next to a woman who called herself the queen of hearts. She gave me her card.

The Queen of Hearts was a very troubled woman, her ex was going to prison, she was leaving her daughter and grandchildren behind and her health was not good.  During the ride her diabetes acted up and finally caused her system to begin to shut down.

But oh she was funny! A sharp sense of humor with a cutting edge and honest to a needle point. And kind. In spite of all she was quietly suffering through she was good, forgiving and made us family. Even the two young men in the seat behind us grew to be allies. That’s how it is on the train. The last night just hours before her stop she called to me, “Gypsy, ( her name for me), I have a DNR on top of my purse, if anything happens give it to them.” She was shivering and sweating often getting delirious. “I”m scared, please help me.” “I hope my brother is at the stop.” Again she insisted I find the DNR and told me about other aliments. Finally, when she could no longer move I got the conductor who called for an ambulance to meet the train at the next stop.

It seemed endless but finally the stop with brother and ambulance appeared. It took time as the twisted stairway is very narrow but they transported her onto a gurney and as the train pulled away so did the ambulance. I will never forget the Queen of Hearts and hope she has survived. Today listening to a song about sleeping with a woman who he did not even remember the name of made me recall a woman, a Queen of Hearts, who I shall never forget. During the train ride she told me of her dream to open a restaurant and together we visualized and named it. Amethyst. Elegant, international foods, lavender decor, inside a cottage house with a large glass window. Should you ever see a restaurant Named Amethyst please tell the Queen of Hearts Gypsy said hello.

 

Celebration

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Writers advice

David Farland sends out a newsletter: Kick in the Pants. I copied and pasted this from his newsletter. I find it to be great advice as well as inspiring. “Among the Welsh, a poet was called a Maker. The idea was that with words he could create illusions that were so deep, so profound, that it was as if he were bringing his dreams to life. When a Maker describes a stream, you can hear the babbling of the brook as water goes rolling over stones. You can taste the mist rising from limpid pools on the back of your tongue, along with sunlight and autumn leaves. As you kneel to drink, water striders dart through your imagination.

When a Maker tells a tale, he doesn’t just explain what emotions a character feels. He’s not satisfied with just “showing” the emotion by describing it accurately. His goal is to make you experience the tale. His goal is to bring you into the tale so forcefully, that you live through it.”

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