Posts tagged ‘identity’

22/09/2013

Belfast City (Airport Lounge)

 

There’s nothing here that’s left to say.

The street sides reek of other worlds.

An emptiness envelops us:

The bars are full, the hilltops dark.

 

There’s space between the cranes and stars:

A pile of other people’s trades,

So high it greets the tourist jets

With soulful songs of loss and regret.

 

The shops are full, the eyes are down.

I’ll walk a slightly longer route.

I don’t – and never will – belong.

I left and didn’t add a word.

 

The sun’s the same: it lights the glass

Of windows up The Falls to Whiterock.

 

 

 

07/08/2013

The Summit of Pen-y-Ghent (Walk No. 7) – video poem

 

Pen-y-Ghent and Language

 

A video poem for Walk Number 7 from thecheesewolf’s series Ten Walks. This piece was filmed on Pen-y-Ghent (The Hill of the Winds) in the Yorkshire Dales National Park, northern England. One of the main themes of this poem is language and naming – in this case the names of hills. Pen-y-Ghent is believed to be the Brythonic name for the hill – it is very similar to the Welsh for “Hill of the Wind”. Clearly there is a Celtic resonance in the name, and there are many remnants of the pre-“English” cultures of the Dales. Indeed, on nearby Ingleborough there are the clear outlines of ancient round houses, and just up the dale from Pen-y-Ghent itself are the remains of a small Roman outpost. If you are ever in this neck of the woods, do try to check out Pen-y-Ghent, and the other hills around (Ingleborough, Whernside, Buckden Pike etc). It is a special place, and the food, wildlife and walking are all wonderful.

if you would like to read the poem, go to www.thecheesewolf.wordpress.com, it’s down below… Alternatively, click on the captions button on the video for a “sub-titled” version. this may not work on Kindles, for some reason.

15/06/2013

The Ottoman and the Atheist (A 19th Century Riddle)

 

Between the trees a light breeze blew,

A gentle ripple shivered leaves.

It seemed the trees had never moved,

Their roots held deep in solid ground.

 

It seemed the breeze was passing through:

Once here then on. It barely touched

The earth at all, it had no weight.

The trees were real, the breeze a myth.

 

And from the breeze the stories grew,

And from the trees the tales were true.

In time the trees and breeze would change:

The breeze grew leaves, the trees took flight.

 

It seemed the breeze had never moved.

It seemed the trees were passing through.