Monday, November 25, 2013

MOTHER NATURE.....BRAVA!





I am like a child these days. This is my kind of weather. Blue skies, cold, colourful days and cosy nights. I am in Beatrix Potter and Kenneth Graham's magical world of hedgehogs, badgers, mice and rabbits busily harvesting rich hedgerow spoils; filling up their larders for the hibernation season. I  have seen many beautiful Autumns, but this one has to be the Fionn mac Cumhaill of all champions. I have tried to analyse why my heart feels like its fit to burst each time I see a leaf or two of red, yellow and gold, and why I want to shout out to everyone that I meet and do sometimes, 'Hey, have you ever seen anything quite so magical?' Mother Nature is giving us the works this Autumn. She has witnessed the suffering and despondency of people who have lost out on something or someone over the last few years through no fault of their own. Scientists will explain that the richness of colour all around us is indicative of extra sugar content etc. If that is so, Mother Nature is responsible for providing the most perfect laboratory conditions in order to direct and produce the most uplifting spectacle of colour ever! This Festival that we have all been given free tickets for, brings out the child in all of us. From what we can tell, colours, like music and art were an integral part of communication rituals long before a structured language. Perhaps that's why some of our 'off the Richter-scale' experiences of joy are so difficult to express in words. When the weather is dry, what could be more thrilling and delicious than walking through drifts of leaves; kicking them upwards and watching them fall again for the second time, or gathering armfuls and hurling them towards the gods in spontaneous gratitude for such bounteous gifts.

In a pub somewhere in 20 years, the hard men at the bar will be referring to the great Autumn of 2013 and exchanging tales of where they were and what they were doing at that time.

Autumn Leaves was one of  my late father's favourite songs and this chap Miles Davis does a really fruity version, and I would ask you please to take time to listen. The images on the video are also rather tasty.







Ciao for now!

Saturday, November 23, 2013

BOUZOUKI BOY






She closes the ocean out for a while, and moves towards the bar, loving the sound of her heels on the stone floor under a low roof, and the earthy smell of turf burning from a hearth under siege from fishermen and those hungry for adventure. She finds a chink in the queue for stout, to order coffee and is offered a stool. which she accepts with grace, for it was given with a gentle smile. This was the only way to do this; 'A present to me', she reminds herself. Alone....she sighs and turns to face the fire. No placating or responding....just listening. It seemed she had travelled many miles and many years to reach this moment. Her eyes settle upon four men just right of the sea-scarred heroes. The musicians are taking a breather, she imagines, because they are chatting and taking measured mouthfuls of the black stuff.... that is except for the bouzouki player. He sits quite still and stares out towards a crowd of crab-people, who come to pay homage to the ocean and the music it inspires in an effort to feel free. 'I am one of them,' she thinks. The men take up once more, their fiddle, pipes, and guitar. The bouzouki boy had never let go. As they play she watches only him. His brows bend, black and battling, and his torturing fingers show no mercy towards silver strings. She feels a despair, but questions whether it is his or hers. An hour later, the musicians shake hands and accept crab-compliments. Their music-making has been replaced once more by that of the ocean; crashing against craggy coastline like an old-school rocker. She follows helplessly; his number one groupie. Outside again. She wonders why she feels safer out here and then decides to sits on the harbour wall and waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she can now make out the deadly white frills of Oceanius' whores. 'It's relentless isn't it?' She turned and saw the bouzouki boy standing behind her looking straight ahead. 'I wish you would play out here,' she said. It was the first time she had seen him smile.








Maureen Walsh - November 2013




Ciao for now!

Thursday, November 14, 2013

DANCE WITH MY FATHER




DANCE WITH MY FATHER



Yawning toes trap travelled feet 
Licking fingers trick calloused hands
Searching eyes eat hovering face
Guzzling smile seizes helpless mirth
Eager legs snare weary stilts
Wordless songs inspire timeless tunes
Hapless heart wakens hungry soul.

So starts the dance......



Maureen Walsh - November 2013









Ciao for now!