Turquoise crashes onto the rocks along the R336 road. The passing sun illuminates the moorland full of rocks that stretch out like in a movie. We stop in Carraroe at the purple Bia Blasta cafe that Liza once showed me. I’m trying to remember how to say “Hello” in Gaelic because in this region 80% of the inhabitants use this language every day.
Continue reading
The first surgery in my life is behind me. And I woke up from sleep just in time for the Imbolc festival – spring returning, which Ireland is celebrating this weekend. I wrote here a few years ago that the Celtic Imbolc meets at the crossroads with Saint Bridget’s Day. Meanwhile, I put on a ginger hoodie, light candles next to the ceramic volcano Vesuvius, and turn on colorful lights. And my friend brings me a red primrose in a yellow pot.
Continue reading
I had no idea my hair was already so platinum until I sat in front of a tribal woman who was rubbing red over her emerald eyes. Beautiful, she was looking into the distance at the people at the cafe tables.
Continue reading
In our roof garden, large orange and red toadstools have grown, sprinkled with irregular balls that look like rolled-up papers. When November draws in the clouds and starts raining all day long, our toadstools are like living pieces of art, their colours shining through the darkest thoughts.
Continue reading
–Long day – a guy talks to us in Dudley’s Bar, where we are waiting for a concert by Hania Rani, a Polish pianist and composer. I’m drinking a pint of Blue Ghosts in honor of her new album ‘Ghosts’.
– Oh yes, it’s a very long and exciting day, for us, we came from Galway, because just around the corner in Vicar Street will perform an amazing artist who can do anything in music – says Maciek.
Continue reading
Every one of you has a story. Be sure to be telling – so said actress Julie Sharkey in her performance about hard-working ‘An ant called Amy’ by director Rymond Keane. Ant finally stopped rushing so much and found happiness. And we at the end of this play were sending our warm thoughts to people who are special to us. We were sending this in ballon we blow by our imagination. I totally slowed down when I was a volunteer at the Baboró International Art Festival for Children.
Continue reading
I turn on the electro jazz of the Svaneborg Kardyb duo and I am getting off the metro again at Enghave Square in Vesterbo district in Copenhagen. People sit on the wooden sidewalk around, at tables in Navnløs Kaffe & Bar, or on benches, curbs, and lawns next to tenement houses. They have coffee from their own thermos or from cafes. Many eat fresh spandeuer from the local Bageried BRØD.
Continue reading
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?
Continue reading
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.
Continue reading
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.
Continue reading