We reach Dublin Northside, and the rain stops. Magic sun peeks out from behind the cloud. Because our first stop is the Cloud Café. We sit on the veranda and gaze out at North Strand Road. Pleasant songs play in the background, and the city buzzes. A green double-decker bus floats over a stone bridge.
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October started quickly. I don’t know where it is rushing. So I try to capture this last week. I listen to the dripping rain, watch the flickering candle flame. I grind coffee beans, warmth brown like chestnuts. I am looking a fox in the garden. At the Galway market, I eat homemade sushi in the fleeting sunshine. Meanwhile a poem I write about November.
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The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.
Maya Angelou
The orange light of sunset behind the curtain, made bed, heather-covered hills, a mother’s hands, a kettle on the stove with laundry drying above it, relaxed cat, people hugging, shoes, glass bottles of homemade juice, the ocean (…) Various images remind us of home. We come from different countries, but we all live in Galway, and we are united by a Photography Exhibition “Home” part of Eastside Arts Festival organized by Hugh Murphy.
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Finally, I’m cleaning up one of my local beach in Galway again with a group of volunteers. This time, I’m joining an event organized by Luana Jungmann from Curi Ocean.
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5:35 a.m. The fox turns to me his pointed muzzle and staring at me from ten feet away, like all the wildlife nature trying to survive in this city.
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And everything is happening now. Only once.
Just look and listen to not miss anything from this moment.
-sings Jerzy Stachura Junior at the 24th Nation Poets’ Meeting “White Locomotive” in Łazieniec, in Poland. The red, yellow, and purple light of a September evening illuminates the stage and poet Edward Stachura is standing on the road with a bicycle next to his mother. Life, happening here and now, and gleams.
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On a sunny Sunday in August, I sit at William Butler Yeats’s table, writing a few thoughts for the master. On the desk lies many of loose sheets of paper, a pen, a quill, and an inkwell. Light streams in through the green-framed window. I reflect, smile, and look at the red and yellow flowers in a vase. On the sideboard are old books and the poet’s blue teapot.
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We are sitting again on the celadon green chairs on the cobblestone sidewalk. Sunlight filters through the window of the local café, Despensa N.6. For breakfast, gluten-free pancakes with peaches or buckwheat bread with Flamengo cheese. Everything is Lisbon.
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The train arrives for St. Pancras International station. –This is London, your final destination – I hear over the loudspeaker, and I feel a tril. Moments later, we’re traversing the narrow underground corridors. And we’re getting off at Chalk Farm. What a beautiful station building.
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