CLIFFS, A VOLCANO AND A FISH-EATING MAMMAL

The last time I was in Tenerife, a friend of a friend from Limerick, who lived on the island for half of every year, took Margaret and myself in his car to see Mount Teide (El Teide), one of the highest volcanoes in the world if you start from the sea bed. In the tourist complex below the volcano, I experienced a brief period of acute shortness of breath. I began to think, This is it, until I realized I was over 2000 meters above sea level. The volcano is still active, though the last eruption was over a century ago, in 1909.
That is not a cow grazing to the right of the volcano's mouth!

We were also taken to see Tenerife's answer to the Cliffs of Moher – Los Gigantes, near the resort of Puerto de Santiago.

And here I am, a fish-eating mammal, back at sea level.

POEM INSPIRED BY TRADITIONAL MUSIC SESSION

WASPS IN THE SESSION

There’s a wasp in the session, zig-zagging

among the dancing fiddle bows. I can see

the hills of Clare from a window behind

the keyboard accompanist, who’s annoyed

by the presence of the wasp. Neophytes sit 

with instruments en garde, in expectation 

of doing battle with a jig they’ve learned.

Nattering non-stop, another wasp 

plonks himself in a chair reserved for players:

music has pressed his talk-button. Praise

in this culture is reticent, addressed

to the instrument – That whistle is going well

for you – or to the time and toil devoted

to the craft –  It’s not today nor yesterday

you took up the fiddle. A stout countryman

pauses on his way from the Gents and stares

at the lead fiddler as if staring could

yield up the point, the mystery of the music.

When the global economy collapses,

these tunes will still be played – wasps or no wasps.

A dozen or so digital recorders,

some of them so small they must have been

designed by Flann O’Brien’s Third Policeman,

are planted near the session. The wasps have gone,

one through an open casement, one through the door.

Somebody calls for a song. The Clare Hills

are looking good: I see them through the window

as if for the first time. It’s not today

nor yesterday they learned to play the light.

© Ciaran O'Driscoll, 2011

Note: I wrote the first draft of this poem in Feakle, Co Clare, during a Sunday morning session at the annual Traditional Music Festival, on August 7th last. The 'lead fiddler' in the poem (and in the session) was Vincent Griffin.

THE RIVER RIVER

Reka is the Slovene word for river. There is a river in Slovenia which is simply called Reka. Hence when we call it the Reka River in English, we are calling it the River River. An interesting idea: is there a River River, the essence of all rivers, the Platonic Idea of Riverdom?
The Reka rises in Croatia, flows through western Slovenia and enters the Skocjan Caves, where it disappears beneath the caves to re-emerge eventually as one of the springs that feed the Timavo River in Italy, hence makes its way to the sea as part of the Timavo. Many lives were lost in the nineteenth century by volunteers with inadequate equipment and experience who tried to find the path taken by the Reka when it went underneath the Skocjan Caves.
A strange river, but looking at this photograph (taken very close to where it enters the cave) you wouldn't think so!

river don’t cast me aside

in a mood-swing of your psyche 

we are passing the time of day

together, let me stay 

crouched here listening

to your pure palaver

WATERFRONTS IN ISTRIA, CROATIA

ROVINJ

NOVIGRAD

DID MAGRITTE HOLIDAY IN NOVIGRAD?

Novigrad is in Istria, Croatia, not far from the more well-known seaside resort of Porec. One of the town's features is a kind of loggia that stands all on its own, unattached to any larger building. These municipal loggia were typical of Istria, and placed on the external side of fortified walls. The one in Novigrad dates from the 16th Century. I imagine that these loggia were viewing points, places where the citizens could go and admire the view, i.e. when and if the town wasn't under siege.

Margaret and myself recently spent several days in Novigrad, which had the uncluttered relaxed air of an Irish seaside town in the 1960s, except that the weather was better. The first time I saw this loggia it reminded me forcefully of a painting by Magritte. Not any painting in particular, but for me the sight of the loggia standing alone (why wasn't it attached to a palace or something?), with its three windows looking out on empty sea, as in the above photo, evoked a strong impression of Magritte's style of surrealism.

How fast the horizon flies where suddenly

after aeons upon aeons of empty sea

a petrol tanker's spit of flame ignites.

(from Eugenio Montale's 'La Casa dei Doganieri', in my own translation.)

Speaking of Montale reminds me that we noticed (or rather, heard) a lot of Italian holidaymakers in Novigrad during our stay. Istria was historically a colony of Venice on account of its salt-works, and the Italian connection is long established. Anyway, it is not a very long drive from Trieste to Novigrad.

 Photos by Margaret (not Magritte)

LIMERICK POETRY FESTIVAL IN BERLIN

On 18th June last, I gave a presentation in the Academy of Arts, Pariser Platz 4, near the Brandenburg Gate, on behalf of Cuisle Limerick City International Poetry Festival, at the Berlin Poetry Festival organized by Literaturwerkstatt. The morning session was a kind of 'Poetry Market' in which representatives from various poetry festivals and projects throughout Europe, together with spokespersons for events in Canada and Chile, shared information and experiences. Each delegate had up to ten minutes to present their festival or project (although the official deadline was five minutes). One of the topics up for discussion in the afternoon session was 'The willingness of European Festivals to invest together in co-productions of poetry and other arts products'. In addition, it was agreed that a petition to governments, regarding imminent draconian cutbacks to arts budgets, would later be sent around by e-mail for the signature of everyone present.

JOHN ARDEN AND MARGARETTA D'ARCY AT CAHERAWONEEN

Renowned playwrights John Arden and Margaretta D'Arcy read in Jan Sutton's house at Caherawoneen, near Kinvara, from a script on George Moore's attempts to engage with the Gaelic League, to an audience of friends and admirers, Sunday 5 July 2011.

Among those present were poet and author Fred Johnston (with his dog Tristan), poet Knute Skinner and his wife Edna Faye Kiel.

In an olde worlde atmosphere befitting the historical subject of the script and the grammatically perfect Victorian dialogue of some of its protagonists, tea was served, and (among other delicacies) scones with cream and jam. An unknown labrador took an intense interest in my scone, but in this picture he seems, temporarily at least, to have given up hope of sharing it.