By John O'Donohue
During this new choice 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 international. O'Donohue's instinctive knowledge of the contrasts of his land -- its areas of sunshine and darkness, its routine and its stillness -- is magically delivered to existence in his richly lyrical but deceptively obvious language.Translating the sweetness and elegance of Conamara right into a language exquisitely attuned to the sweetness of the standard, O'Donohue takes us on a relocating trip via genuine and imagined worlds. Divided into 3 components -- Approachings, Encounters, and Distances -- Conamara Blues instantaneously reawakens a feeling of intimacy with the flora and fauna and a sense of ask yourself on the secret of our courting to this international. no matter if exploring the silent, everlasting reminiscence of Conamara or concentrating on the facility of language and the vagaries of human want and fervour, O'Donohue tenderly unearths 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 bargains a unique and lasting creative imaginative and prescient of a panorama of wish and hazard -- powerfully displaying the mastery of a poet on the peak of his lyric powers.
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Worn to a thread the old man’s rope of days, Spent unravelling in this empty torment, Has wizened his silence to words of flint. When he glimpses the child, his lost voice flares. His words lodge in the young mother’s thought That a sword of sorrow will pierce her heart. 40 The Finding in the Temple Oblique to the heart, the word a man seeks Seldom comes to life in a tongue of flame From the grate of silence where anger dreams And stutters in embers thought cannot reach. When the voice remains fettered, it grows cold All over the neighbourhood of the word.
What light could endure the dark he entered? The void that turns the mind into a ruin Haunted by the tattered screeching of birds Who nest deep in hunger that mocks all care. Still he somehow stands in that nothingness; Raising the chalice of kindness to bless. 42 The Scourging at the Pillar When we love we love to touch the beloved. Our hands find joy in the surprise of skin. Here is where tenderness is uncovered. Few frontiers hold a world more wondrous in. Imagine the anger of their disturbance.
They cannot bear the portals his words create. Helpless, turned inside out by his presence, Sheltering from themselves as a crowd irate. Made to face the pillar, the wrists bind him Under the shadow of the angel of pain, Who flogs, and waits, prefers a broken rhythm, Until his back becomes a red text of shame. His mind holds to the images of those he loves; While his frightened skin swells under the scourge. 43ç The Crowning with Thorns The thorns woven to your head are nothing Like the emptiness loosening your mind From the terse mountains where you served your time Seeking the hearth in the loneliness of things.