Swans and Chimney Stacks

(Swans sail out into the morning sunlight at the Dockside)

Only in Dublin
would two swans
crossing the docks
greet you in March

Light reflecting
refracting the image
of urban life
and city living

hazy sun and
smokey stacks
a tall ship mast
and two wild swans

Welcome to my city
cosmopolitan
21st century
metropolis

Welcome to my city
Viking terrority
mystical land
mysterious port.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.

Behind Me, The Lights of the City

Behind me the lights of the city: (story)

Behind me the lights of the city: before me the brooding blue-grey shape of the Little Sugarloaf. In a way I was trapped.

Once out of the sprawling metropolis, away from the outlying industrial estates and brutal housing schemes, the mega-malls and cinema-complexes, as the road begins to wind and climb, a spiral path of enchantment into forests older than the oldest cobble on the Trinity quad – there am I in my innocence, climbing into the hills; clawing my way from the grey and the concrete, my own county fading behind me to a carpet of fallen stars. And before me in my mind a soft verdant country lush in it’s welcoming. But how to get to this soft green heart: untrammelled by the grey ribbon, the thread of mundanity binding me to the daylight.

Hurry! Dusk is falling, twilight dying, night approaching. What do I do, where do I go? If I stay on this road I hit Stepaside next, out of the county and on to Enniskerry. Next stop Sally’s Gap. Sally’s Gap is a wilderness too far for me tonight. The endless rolling hills and the far-reaching vista across the great plain of Ireland holds no charms when coupled with a dark night and a road barely wide enough for one car.

No, I want to stop: I want to get off this damn road. I want to walk in a forest at dusk smelling the wild garlic and Star-of-David. I want to listen to the last flight of the rooks, towards their nests, that evening transgression warning the innocent and the pure to retreat before the wild and free. I turn in a daze only half realizing the sign “ Coille” – forest. The car crunches over gravel, tires making a satisfying and definite bite into the earth. The deserted car park, all woodchip and faux rustic fence complete with stile fashioned from barbed wire, a wound in still green wood that oozes as it bears your weight, was too still, too much part of the world of man. I park in haste, and before common sense and memories of serial killer warnings could rear their ugly head.

I climb the ugly stile acutely aware of my ungainly lack of agility, feeling the earthen pull of my body, a lack of grace adding to every other woe. The path is woodchip with undertones of mud, but there is a smell of wild garlic. The air is cool and damp but the day has been just warm enough for it to have the true freshness of summer. Some to my left the rooks set off their harsh song immeasurably comforting in the near complete gloom. The midges are biting just a little and the pine trees – the whole face of Wicklow is bearded with pine forests – sway and rustle. I become acutely aware of the undergrowth. Majestic swirls of fern studded with heather: and plants so wild they cannot be flowers any more, they have to be herbs. The foxglove, hand in hand with ground ivy- and all of it home to the small defenceless creatures the rest of the animal world call lunch. All of it alive and stirring and growing and living and dying, with or without my attention.

On impulse I plunge off the track, like a diver parting dark waters with my arms. It is a mistake, I think frantically, after a very few minutes. Tree trunk on elbow, thorn on bare skin, insect in nostril, eyes blurring with tears, but still I push. Push frantically as midwife to my own progress. Anger rises as I struggle, tears of frustration now, hands stinging from a thousand tiny daggers; every plant in the forest having a dig.
My arms ache now, really ache. I begin to feel suffocated, that little voice of sanity in my head screaming “why are you here? This is insane!” My suffering soul makes a mental note to track down that voice and strangle it. There seems no end to this tangle of tree and bracken, and no way even of telling where I was going. I would have to turn around fight my way back. There was no point continuing, it was a failure. I had plunged, hoping that something would happen. I had closed my eyes, opened my mouth and waited to see what the gods would send me. A mouthful of midges it seemed. I would go back. I’d be better off in front of the telly with a large vodka than this.

What did you expect, the little voice of sanity chided. You’re in the middle of nowhere, plunging through undergrowth fighting with a forest. If your car isn’t on bricks in the car park by the time you get back you can count yourself lucky.

I stop and steady myself against a rough trunk, my face sweating and my breath ragged. My hair had long before escaped and made the most of its contact with nature. Shards of pine palm and baby conifers added unwonted volume while steady backcombing against a succession of branches had created a Byzantine intricacy of form. My clothes are stuck to me, stained and an odour of sweat and endeavour punctured the mask of deodorant and anti-perspirant I wear like a second skin. Being smelly ahs always been a fear of mine, body odours reviled like hairy armpits or stubby nails.

The tree trunk was strong and broad and I lay against it my legs shaking with tiredness. The darkness was almost complete now especially this far into the forest away from the track. The smells rise from the forest floor. I close my eyes but my eyelids feel like gossamer curtains: I can still see through them, see the dark greenness the shifting branches. I hear the very turning of a blade of grass. I am reaching out of my self, I feel the darkest softest caress, the world is spinning and I am laying giddy watching infinity and space whirl past. There is no sense of claustrophobia now, the warm press of the forest, the sense of being burrowed into the heart of a nest is comforting, encompassing. I realize just how far deep in I have wormed, like a child trying to return to womb. This reminds me of my grief but it is a detached thought, it is a question, it is a whisper and it is answered.

I come back to myself, blinking in surprise. Have I fallen asleep? Every knot on the rough bark is digging a separate hole in my back, I feel wring out, flattened, but not unpleasantly so: I feel the way I felt as a child after a day of adventure and play, tired to the bone but satisfied. I find my way out of the dense forest growth, not the way I came in incidentally – the forest has already closed around the traces of my battling progress inwards. It opens itself easily to me now I want to leave, and I push through to the path with relative ease.

The car is still on four wheels, the engine turns over, there is no sign of the serial killer urban legend warns haunts these mountains. I drive around for a while stopping when I see the lights of more than one house and turning away from the lights. In the end this pattern brings me to the motorway and I find myself speeding back towards the lights, down into the carpet of stars.

1.

Food for the Soul

I take my inspiration where I can find it. I have never been a particularly prolific writer; to my mind churning out every piece of doggerel that occurs to you shows a lack of discrimination. I find that Imbas comes to me from a variety of sources; from personal relationships and moments of great joy or trauma. I find myself returning to small pockets of inspiration that occur throughout life, moments that stand out in the mind and soul. It may take years but those moments create and shape the imagery and word-craft of any poet - and they are rare and wonderful moments, to be jealously and appreciatively gaurded.
This weekend was for me, as an urban pagan, a rare and precious moment. A moment of Imbas, Inspiration. In the proximity of Love, and enjoying the uniquely urban setting of a Dublin beach, it crystallized in several key images the truth of urban paganism - an urban pagan is not one that dreams of being a smallholder in Donegal and who desperately tries to recreate a rural setting in the city but one who embraces the urban life, and who lives in harmony with those surrounding, sensing the nature of the beast that is the city and the energy of the people living there.
It also provided a complex layer of thought and feeling, an oasis of inspiration to which I will return some day, when the words are needed and the time is right.

1.

April Showers

The gods of weather are fighting it out above the city today: the contest sparked by a row over the glorious spring weather, sponsored in a fit of generosity by Dagda the great father whose special interest in crops seems to have prompted him to provide the nearest thing to a summer we've seen in five years. Albeit in April.
But on the other side we have Manannán, undisputed king of the sea, ruler of the western wave and traditional ruler of Dublin, ably assisted by Anna Livia Herself, the great Liffey lover of Manannán.
"Oh, Anna, " He sighs in the wind, the seagulls driven inwards to the city to act as a chorus to His love poems; "Oh Anna, 'tis too dry, too still, too quiet"

Anna Livia, basking in the unaccustomed warmth and sunshine, rouses Herself with a guilty start, and tries to look as busy as possible. Manannan calls again sadly "O! Anna, sweet Livia, Where are the wild winds of April, the showers of sweet rain, the rainbows the ark like a virgins promise from land to heaven? Where are the last great storms of winter, my last crashing waves against the shore?"
Anna caresses the land as She passes, not wishing to reply, not wishing to fight, wishing only to surrender Herself to the waiting arms of Her lover. But She knows enough to know He'll sulk if She doesn't say something, so She murmurs her sympathy and watches the sunlight through the trees as She croons.

The Dagda smiles down and with a flick of a lazy wrist adjusts the clouds, little wispy summer clouds, hard to conjure out of nowhere in April, soft clouds that adorn the pale blue sky. "Come now, Manannán ," His voice is like laughter on the wind, like ice-cream in a pink bowl. "It's been almost ten years since they had a good summer!"
"Who?" Manannan is puzzled. The gods? the Sheep? the fish? The ants?
"The children," Dagda says casting an indulgent eye over Grafton Street, his favourite street although He knows he should really have chosen Kildare street, for the Politics or one of the Gracious Georgian Squares for a bit of class. What can He say? He likes Brown Thomas' and Monsoon. He likes the young women in flighty minis and the boys in trousers that remind Him vaguely of harem pants He saw once on holiday.
He quite likes the buskers except the ones who play Van Morrison. He wishes He'd never thought to give "Van the Man" an interest in music - He'd thought maybe the boy would take up the fiddle or even be a music journalist. He really hadn't meant Van Morrison. But the ones playing Allison Moyet were pretty good. He liked the little colourful stalls and he really liked the smell of coffee from Bewleys, and the little winding streets off Grafton street, they were pretty damn fine if He said so Himself.
He frowns momentarily: that cheeky Viking upstart taking credit for His winding streets...but no, He smiles again and the sun reappears, the sudden cool shadow cast over the city lifting like gossamer in a summer breeze. He'd proven his point, and now all was well with the world: and the spring having gone down so well with the kids, He had big plans for the summer, long hazy days, hot afternoons, impossibly blue skies. It had been ages, ages, since He'd pulled out all the stops. Manannan growled softly."I've told you before, it shouldn't matter what they think" He spread His arms and the waves rose against the shore beating against the rocks in ceaseless rebellion.
He tossed His head and the rain spat against the cobbles and assaulted the window panes in venomous sprays."Don't be so hard!" Dagda chides. Anna Livia stirs Herself, jealous for Her lovers sake, quick to take offence on His behalf, "Don't you speak to Him like that!" she hisses, undulating in her bed like a lustful snake. And as Manannán stirs the air She raises herself to meet him, baring Her beautiful shoulders and breasts and swelling above the tight marble lines of Her city clothes. "Look" Manannán says proudly. "look. I am the Sea, I am life to these little men. I am the last refuge of the first creatures. I am the loins from which they crawled mewling and gasping, amphibious monsters noone else would tolerate. I fed them, I bore them, but what am I if I listen to them! I am the Sea. I am the Ocean. I am Implacable, Unbridled, Unpredictable. I must roar out the last of my winter blues, I must stretch myself against two continents. I miss the wind, where is my wind"

At this the four winds hear the call of their master and in their haste to reach His side, alarmed by the rising note of anger and frustration in His voice, collide in mid air and the clouds swirl in confusion, Anna Livia eddies and flows in a whirlpool of movement and the Great Dagda himself is momentarily thrown off balance, a thing He hates. He glares at Manannán and with a click of His fingers restores the clear sky and the sun, the city looking skyward in surprise at the sudden spate of rain and wind, and the as-sudden restoration of glorious unseasonable heat.

"Don't you dare" Dagda snarls. "It's taken me three months to plan this spring."Manannán gives a mocking little mince. "ooooooh, three whole months! I've only been at this game a few hundred thousand years, myself. I suppose you think they'll be grateful do you? think they'll be planning a feast like the old days? oooh, dear Dagda, thank you for the decent weather and could you keep it dry for the bank holiday? At least I still get the occasional offering, Old Boy and do you know why? because I don't pander to them, me. They respect me."

Dagda turns his dark eyes upon the defiant Manannán, the indomitable Sea-lord, who stares into those dark stars without a trace of fear or awe. Anna Livia thrills with excitement....a storm, a storm...perhaps even some lightening. Already the rain begins to fall softly at first then in great teardrops splashing dark against the pastels and tans of the fashion conscious. It takes all of the Father's concentration to hold the spring together: the rain and cold howling in the outer darkness, banished but resentful, probing for a weak moment so they can roar back into town, take over once more, play with the citizens as they were used to do. Hold off, threaten, hold off, threaten, wait for it, wait for it, she's got a new hairdo, he's not wearing a jacket, wait for it, NOW! rain at will!

Dagda swears in annoyance and throws a small blast of anger at the Sea-Lord. "Now look what you made me do, " he grumbles, "it'll take all afternoon to round them up again. You've ruined today."Manannán roars in pure anger, dwarfing the Daghda's kindly grumbling or the bitter spite of the rain and cold, summoning up the memories of great storms, hurricanes, tidal waves, continental shift, shark-fins at night, icebergs scraping against iron, lifeboats floating forlornly. "I am Manannán Mac Lir, King of the Sea. I will not cease to roar so that they may have a picnic on my beaches!"

The winds regroup and spin in harmony around His head, a halo of wiry sprites, cheeks puffing and huffing with the desire to blow and wail. The fish settle nervously on the sea bottom, the sharks of the Atlantic take a sharp left away from the west coast, the three headed mutant fish colony of the Irish sea dance their mad dance of glee, too stupid and too crazed to know when to hide. The sky grows dark. The winds rise. The city holds its breath, staring at the sky anxiously, willing the weather to stay good, just few more days, o don't break now, don't let us down!and the sweet sound of the Mother Danaan soothes the air, her voice like honey pouring from a silver spoon.

"Be quiet" she sighs, and raises her head from its slumbers. Her hair spread like red-gold across the Dublin Mountains, her profile raised to the stars, noble in its matronly beauty. She smiles and the sun forces its way through the gathering storm, shinning its rainbow across her brow, His love for Her in every hue. She winks at Him, her oldest friend and admirer and then looks reproachfully at the quarrelling Gods."I was having a nap" Dagda looks sheepishly at His feet and Manannán almost bites off his own tongue in His haste to excuse Himself. His wife Fand smiles up at Danaan, enjoying Her husband's moment of embarrassment. "hush, now" She says, languid and redolent.
"Dagda, I agree with you. The children deserve a little good weather. but Manannán must do as He pleases at sea. He has always ruled the sea."Her voice caresses the city like the smell of chips at dusk, when you're hungry and tired from the play of long summer day, like the memory of childhood, like the feel of warm sand between your toes. The rain dies down, fades in the face of Her wish, and the Sun makes His triumphant return to the loud applause of the citizens.

"I hear, " She smiles at the Sealord, "I hear there is room for a storm out in the Atlantic. I did enjoy that storm you did there last November. I always think they look so much better out there, out in the open. I can really appreciate the subtleties of your craft when I can see the whole storm on the big screen, you know?"Manannán brightens perceptibly. "we-ell," He says diffidently "I might as well get a bit of practice in, I suppose" He turns his chariot and raises His whip but pauses to ask somewhat suspiciously "you will be watching now, won't you" Danaan smiles their special secret smile...."Of course I will" and Manannán races happily across the waves. "Humpph" Dagda settles himself again, to look at the city. "I suppose I had better try to get this sorted....a whole day ruined though. Pity." Danaan leans gently across His shoulder and looks at the little city, now slightly bedraggled, the puddles gleaming like jewels in the smug rays of the reinstated afternoon Sun."No, I think it looks nice. You should do another sunset, last night's was beautiful"
The Dagda grinned involuntarily. "I wondered if you'd noticed!" He exclaims. "It was quite some job getting that orange-red shade at this time of year, I can tell you. And the Shaded Violets and Indigoes took hours to perfect!"
"lovely" Danaan says hastily, "well, one just like it then!""Oh, yes, okay," She looks at the great shoulders of Her kindly husband, His earnest good nature showing in every line as He poured over the city streets, trying to catch at the perfect shade of afternoon to suit its mood. His beloved Dublin, his Crossing at the Ford, His Baile Atha Cliath. She smiled at Him, the helpless affection of ten thousand years. "Here" she says plucking it from her perfect brow and handing to Him. "You can have my rainbow"

1.