ST Colmans Well – Oughtmama
ST Colmans Well – Oughtmama

Is there a code of seeing
what is or is not present?
This tree by Colman’s well
melted into its heartspace.
This coil of life in its own soil,
making its truest stand,
in its true place becoming itself.

Is it the light or is it the stone
the contours of the land its limbs follow
the sinew of moulded rock cleaving the valley
mirroring the arch of its salient life
the visible made invisible
the emerged merged in its world.

Up close the tree
is a reflection of the land it looks upon,
arching over those who have walked
millennium through millennium,
to tie threads and flame ribbons
to the ochre stems of winter fuchsia,
handmaid to the well stone.

One life listening to the whispered
admonitions of penitent selves,
to their ash-knotted, and leaf- blooming supplications.
This life in true regard of its true position,
at one with place as any one thing can be,
in place to home and home to heartsource both.

Frank Golden

Frank Golden is a Clare-based poet, novelist, and screenwriter. He has published five books of poems, the most recent of which was gotta get a message to you(Salmon Publications 2017) “This is a poet to get excited about. Risk-taking…rhapsodic…elevated.” Afric McGlinchy/Southword. His novel, The Two Women of Aganatz(Wolfhound Press), was described by Carol Coulter in The Irish Times as “uncomfortable, but compellingly and poetically described by a powerful imagination”. Golden’s novel The Night Game (Salmon Publications) was described by Declan Burke/The Irish Examiner as, “A challenging, transgressive, and gripping read.”

He has received bursaries and awards from the Irish Film Board, Clare County Council, and the Arts Council of Ireland. Frank Golden is Head of Creative Writing at the Burren College of Art.

www.frankgolden7.com

Ouevre

Declension in April

Poetry by Frank Golden

Lacking an ordained task, I sit in the blue chair facing south, rain on the circular field past Ballyhaine, rifts of blue opened by the wind, a taper of baling...
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This Time

Poetry by Frank Golden

My father would come this time of year the hawthorn needled into flower the sycamore and elder in full leaf to relish a call that ravelled him back in time....
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Portrait

Poetry by Frank Golden

Oughtmama and the mists of late February fade Turlough Mountain and Moneen to a landscape of silhouettes in sheer cascade, only the immediate clear and nameable. I live here now...
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Anthology

On The Edge

Poetry by Arwa Qutbuddin

Holy intoxication makes my spirit drunk I sip from the lake that holds a sacred moonbeam inside its black waters This beauty leaves me in rapture of the starless night...
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Blues

Poetry by Neha Kothari

Were you looking for long? You can always find me Where? Oh you can find me where the blues meet. Look into the sifting clouds And follow their path You...
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One into the Other

Poetry by Arwa Qutbuddin

The cup of tea I make for you Has something in it of the rustling leaves I saw yesterday while lying under the trees Their gentle movement stirs itself through...
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