A poem for a Monday morning…
What better way to start the week, wherever you are in the world?
Every week, from January 1st 2013, we will be uploading a poem and accompanying video artwork, in celebration of Ireland’s literary and visual creativity.
Week by week, over six months, you’ll be able to follow the work of leading, and emerging artists and writers, and discover Ireland through different eyes.
Be moved, inspired, enthralled.
The Poetry Project is absolutely free, and is presented as part of the Culture Programme of the EU Presidency.
by Eavan BolandWhat better way to start the week, wherever you are in the world?
Every week, from January 1st 2013, we will be uploading a poem and accompanying video artwork, in celebration of Ireland’s literary and visual creativity.
Week by week, over six months, you’ll be able to follow the work of leading, and emerging artists and writers, and discover Ireland through different eyes.
Be moved, inspired, enthralled.
The Poetry Project is absolutely free, and is presented as part of the Culture Programme of the EU Presidency.
They are making a new Ireland
at the end of our road,
under our very eyes,
under the arc lamps they aim and beam
into distances where we once lived
into vistas we will never recognise.
We are here to watch,
We are looking for new knowledge.
They have been working here in all weathers,
tearing away the road to our village –
bridge, path, river, all
lost under an onslaught of steel.
An old Europe
has come to us as a stranger in our city,
has forgotten its own music, wars and treaties,
is now a machine from the Netherlands or Belgium
dragging, tossing, breaking apart the clay
in which our timid spring used to arrive
with our daffodils in a crooked, single row.
at the end of our road,
under our very eyes,
under the arc lamps they aim and beam
into distances where we once lived
into vistas we will never recognise.
We are here to watch,
We are looking for new knowledge.
They have been working here in all weathers,
tearing away the road to our village –
bridge, path, river, all
lost under an onslaught of steel.
An old Europe
has come to us as a stranger in our city,
has forgotten its own music, wars and treaties,
is now a machine from the Netherlands or Belgium
dragging, tossing, breaking apart the clay
in which our timid spring used to arrive
with our daffodils in a crooked, single row.
Remember the emigrant boat?
Remember the lost faces burned in the last glance?
The air clearing away to nothing, nothing, nothing.
We pull our collars tightly round our necks
but the wind finds our throats,
predatory and wintry.
We walk home. What we know is this
(and this is all we know): We are now
And we will always be from now on –
for all I know we have always been –
exiles in our own country.
Remember the lost faces burned in the last glance?
The air clearing away to nothing, nothing, nothing.
We pull our collars tightly round our necks
but the wind finds our throats,
predatory and wintry.
We walk home. What we know is this
(and this is all we know): We are now
And we will always be from now on –
for all I know we have always been –
exiles in our own country.
Find artists and videos from previous weeks
- January 28th - February 3rd 2013
Artist: Oliver Comerford, Distance Poet: Eavan Boland In Our Own Country - January 21st - 27th 2013
Artist: Anita Groener, Somewhere Else Poet: Michael Coady Letting Go - January 14th - 20th 2013
Artist: Cléa van der Grijn, Niesje Poet: Vona Groarke The Clutch Handbag - January 7th - 13th 2013
Artist: John Halpin, Driving Alone on a Snowy Evening (After Frost) Poet: Sinead Morrissey Driving Alone on a Snowy Evening - January 1st - 6th 2013
Artist: Katherine Boucher Beug, Begin Poet: Brendan Kennelly Begin
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