Scattered notes in a notebook. Torn pages for shopping lists, crossed out reflections. But there are more and more poems on the phone. Meanwhile, the red-gold-burgundy is getting closer. And who would have guessed that she is the one who chills out my chaos every year?
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When I go through early autumn Connemara, I see yellow, sheen green, burgundy, beige, and grey in the afternoon light. The mountains have rough brown skin and they resemble elephants like when I was on the hike to Carrauntoohil.
Meanwhile, Connemara of Joan Finnegan’s painting emerges from midnight blue to pink, strong green, turquoise, Venetian red, and clear orange sun – every day new. The hills contain colorful stripes and squares. There is a fuschia road from Inishnee across the sapphire blue water and leading to a turquoise mountain under the watermelon sky.
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Puedo escribir los versos a más de 40 grados esta noche Pablo Neruda
When Galway winds blow and the last summer sun shines, I sigh for the city of Hercules – the god of travel. Seville for me is warm yellow mixed with orange peels, blue, and malachite. Brass gates and behind them gardens like from “Tales from the Arabian Nights”. “Red buses and Santa Justa railway station where I get off or get on with flushed face.
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When I wake up in Galway after travel, I look everywhere for cortado coffee. Even if, I only drank black Americano. But, recently, I hit with Spain. And Cadiz became my third home, full of light.
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The rain is dripping on the cherry laurel leaves in my garden. At the gate, I meet my Japanese neighbors who are carrying large bags of rice. We exchange types of soy sauce, because today I make sushi.
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I like all shades of blue and living near the ocean. The cries of seagulls are homely sounds to me. And for several years, cleaning the beach has become part of my life. I have already written about how rubbish opens wide their jaws. That’s why on Wednesday afternoon I’m bursting with energy and I don’t feel tired after work. Because I have a motive.
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It’s a pleasant June raining. I’m sitting in my tiny garden, splash, splash, splash – replies the cloudburst. The cat also listens and smells fresh drops. Lobelia becomes even pinker. And in five minutes my bare feet are already warmed by joyful rays.
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Oregano, strong green sedge, and pink lobelia are the first plants in my tiny garden, which I create on the balcony. On the wooden floor, I put a mat with a floral motif and beige pillows. In the middle, is a square table like a tray, a bit Japanese style. Stones collected from the ocean are silent next to the pots together with a ceramic owl made by my niece.
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Smells of pink tulips when we eat breakfast with the door open. Triangles with cheese, vanilla tea, and crunchy flakes do not miss the attention of a black-and-white cat. Colorful hammocks rock us on the porch, and we look at soap bubbles as if it is magic. A badminton shuttlecock flies across the blue sky from me to you. And storks dance over a field of bright yellow rapeseed.
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‘evening hysteria‘
one white moth is a symbol
that life is more important than fear
discipline hurts the child
it is bad deadly fun
life is usually like a cliche
each moment and risk of moment
protect the moth and the white hour
where you would find nothing or everything
I run with this poem at 6 in the morning. The dawn is not so dark anymore. On bus 409, I sit down in my usual seat and open “A Thousand Genious Galaxies” by Justyna Paluch.
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