Friday 28 August 2015


picture : Brooke Shaden

Tuesday 25 August 2015

Story Quilt




Lovely to see it's still there. Silk and paper patchworks created for Healing Arts Trust as part of Doing The Rounds project (University Hospital Waterford).

Tuesday 18 August 2015

Anna Kamieńska (1920-1986) was a prominent member of that particularly distinguished generation of Polish writers who experienced the Second World War as young men and women, many of whom died at the hands of the Nazis. During the war she taught in underground schools in the Lublin region, having studied Education in Warsaw. She continued her studies after the War and subsequently became deeply involved in the literary life of the Polish capital, working on the important monthly magazine Creativity. Her first published poems appeared in 1945 and her last in her Two Darknesses: Selected Poems (1984) from which the poems in this current volume are selected and translated. Her Notebooks appeared posthumously in 1987.
Her work was deeply influenced by the War, the Holocaust, and the suffering of Poland, as well as more personal grief, especially as a result of the early death in 1967 of her husband, Jan Spiewak, also a poet. Kamieńska is undoubtedly a religious poet yet she is also a technically and stylistically adventurous ‘modern’ poet. Although Biblical allusions and aspects of Catholic mysticism pervade her work, there is nothing predictably pietistic about it. She has been called a Catholic Existentialist, and her admiration for the great French ‘patron saint of outsiders’, the unorthodox, Judaeo-Christian mystic Simone Weil who died during the War, is significant. The thirty-five poems in the collection include the major ten-part sequence ‘Job’s Second Happiness’, as well as major poems on Dr Korczak, Edith Stein, Andrei Rublow, the Janów Orchestra and ‘A Short Conversation with Simone Weil’.
Shortly before Kamieńska’s death, which was unexpected, Tomasz Krzeszowski visited her and read her the translations in progress, including the Job poems. She was delighted with the project and gave it her blessing.
Tomasz P Krzeszowski, a lexicographer and poet, was Professor of English at the University of Gdańsk at the time of making these translations, and was subsequently a Professor at the University of Warsaw.
Questions on rights to reproduce the translations should be addressed to Desmond Graham.

It's Funny

What’s it like to be human
asked the bird
I don’t really know
to be imprisoned in one’s skin
but reach for infinity
to be captive to a particle of time
but to touch eternity
to be hopelessly uncertain
and a fool of hope
to be a needle of trust
and a handful of heat
to breathe in air
choke without a word
to be aflame
and have a nest of ashes
to eat bread
and be full up with hunger
to die without love
and to love through death
It’s funny said the bird
flying off into air lightly


Anna Kamienska


Wednesday 29 July 2015

Tuesday 28 July 2015



Saturday 25 July 2015

"Once you know with absolute certainty that nothing can trouble you but your own imagination, you come to disregard your desires and fears, concepts and ideas, and live by truth alone."
~ Nisargadatta (20th century Indian Advaita mystic)

Saturday 18 July 2015

Art Undone

'Through the use of creative psychotherapy, imagination and creativity are engaged in order promote wellness.'

The following is a link to Art Undone's website, which focuses on my work in arts based therapy, featured in the forthcoming edition of Network Ireland Magazine.

art : Eabha Rose

Ryan McBride highlights Alicja Ayres' refreshing perspective on art and performance

Crackplot Interview


Thursday 16 July 2015

The Blue Hat


Marie Engelina van Regteren Altena (Dutch,1868-1958)

The Whisperer in Darkness

"Their main immediate abode is a still undiscovered and almost lightless planet at the very edge of our solar system—beyond Neptune, and the ninth in distance from the sun. It is, as we have inferred, the object mystically hinted at as 'Yuggoth' in certain ancient and forbidden writings; and it will soon be the scene of a strange focussing of thought upon our world in an effort to facilitate mental rapport. I would not be surprised if astronomers became sufficiently sensitive to these thought-currents to discover Yuggoth when the Outer Ones wish them to do so. But Yuggoth, of course, is only the stepping-stone. The main body of the beings inhabits strangely organised abysses wholly beyond the utmost reach of any human imagination. The space-time globule which we recognise as the totality of all cosmic entity is only an atom in the genuine infinity which is theirs. And as much of this infinity as any human brain can hold is eventually to be opened up to me, as it has been to not more than fifty other men since the human race has existed."

H.P. Lovecraft


Tuesday 14 July 2015

in the words of Silva Zanoyan Merjanian ~

One of the most brilliant talents in the world today, Suren Voskanyan, I am so honored to have one of your masterpieces as cover of my book, Rumor. 

When poetry and paintings like this unite, it's magic...

Suren Voskanyan was born in 1960 in Yerevan, Armenia, where he still resides. He studied the technique of the masters of impressionism and post impressionism in Hermitage Museum, Leningrad. In 1993 he graduated from the Yerevan Institute of Art and Theatre. Since 1993, Voskanyan has been an art instructor at the Design Center.

The artwork of Voskanyan is original, expressive and full of light.  His canvasses are beautifully composed with stylized figures, often times nude, amidst colorful abstract interiors. 

Voskanyan has been a member of the Realistic Artists Union of Armenia since 1997, and a member of the Artists' Union of Armenia since 1999. He has exhibited his artwork since 1984 in galleries in his native Yerevan, Moscow, Germany, Egypt, and the USA.





Monday 13 July 2015

Beloved Composer Leonard Bernstein on the Importance of Believing in Each Other and How Art Fortifies Our Mutual Dignity

by 
“We must learn to know ourselves better through art. We must rely more on the unconscious, inspirational side of man… We must believe, without fear, in people.”
“We’ve got to be as clear-headed about human beings as possible,” James Baldwin told Margaret Mead in their prescient 1970 conversation on race“because we are still each other’s only hope.” It is in such troubled times as ours — times of shootings, beatings, and the only kind of violence there is: the senseless kind — that we most need to heed Baldwin, to be reminded of who we can be to each other, of the tender and tenacious common humanity that undergirds all surface otherness.
Count on legendary composer Leonard Bernstein (August 25, 1918–October 14, 1990) — one of the most lucid and luminous minds of the past century, a man of immense insight into the creative impulse,deep capacity for gratitude, and complex emotional life — to do the reminding.
A decade before the assassination of JFK prompted Bernstein to write his unforgettable speech on the only true antidote to violence, he penned a beautiful and elevating short essay for NPR’s This I Believe: The Personal Philosophies of Remarkable Men and Women (public library) — the same altogether magnificent compendium that gave us Thomas Mann on time and features other ennobling reflections from beloved luminaries like Eleanor Roosevelt, John Updike, Errol Morris, Gloria Steinem, Eve Ensler, and Andrew Sullivan.
Leonard Bernstein by Jack Mitchell
Bernstein writes:
I believe in people. I feel, love, need, and respect people above all else, including the arts, natural scenery, organized piety, or nationalistic superstructures. One human figure on the slope of a mountain can make the whole mountain disappear for me. One person fighting for the truth can disqualify for me the platitudes of centuries. And one human being who meets with injustice can render invalid the entire system which has dispensed it.
A century after Thoreau wrote that there is “no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by conscious endeavor,”Bernstein kisses awake our capacity for self-transcendence, from which our capacity to change the world springs:
I believe that man’s noblest endowment is his capacity to change. Armed with reason, he can see two sides and choose: He can be divinely wrong. I believe in man’s right to be wrong. Out of this right he has built, laboriously and lovingly, something we reverently call democracy. He has done it the hard way and continues to do it the hard way — by reason, by choosing, by error and rectification, by the difficult, slow method in which the dignity of A is acknowledged by B, without impairing the dignity of C. Man cannot have dignity without loving the dignity of his fellow.
I believe in the potential of people. I cannot rest passively with those who give up in the name of “human nature.” Human nature is only animal nature if it is obliged to remain static. Without growth, without metamorphosis, there is no godhead. If we believe that man can never achieve a society without wars, then we are condemned to wars forever. This is the easy way. But the laborious, loving way, the way of dignity and divinity, presupposes a belief in people and in their capacity to change, grow, communicate, and love.
In a sentiment that calls to mind Neruda’s exquisite metaphor for why we make art, Bernstein considers the power of art as a medium of love that confers dignity upon existence — our own and each other’s:
I believe in man’s unconscious mind, the deep spring from which comes his power to communicate and to love. For me, all art is a combination of these powers; for if love is the way we have of communicating personally in the deepest way, then what art can do is to extend this communication, magnify it, and carry it to vastly greater numbers of people. Therefore art is valid for the warmth and love it carries within it, even if it be the lightest entertainment, or the bitterest satire, or the most shattering tragedy.
Exhorting us to believe “in one another, in our ability to grow and change, in our mutual dignity,” Bernstein echoes John Steinbeck’s memorable assertion that“the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world” and adds:
We must encourage thought, free and creative. We must respect privacy. We must observe taste by not exploiting our sorrows, successes, or passions. We must learn to know ourselves better through art. We must rely more on the unconscious, inspirational side of man. We must not enslave ourselves to dogma. We must believe in the attainability of good. We must believe, without fear, in people.
Complement the wholly wonderful This I Believe with Bernstein on motivation, his beautiful letter of gratitude to his mentor, and his electrifying tribute to JFK, then revisit Viktor Frankl on why it pays to believe in each other.

Sunday 12 July 2015

Saturday 11 July 2015

Driving Around New York City - 1928


Poem

Light clarity avocado salad in the morning
after all the terrible things I do how amazing it is
to find forgiveness and love, not even forgiveness
since what is done is done and forgiveness isn't love
and love is love nothing can ever go wrong
though things can get irritating boring and dispensable
(in the imagination) but not really for love
though a block away you feel distant the mere presence
changes everything like a chemical dropped on a paper
and all thoughts disappear in a strange quiet excitement
I am sure of nothing but this, intensified by breathing

(Frank O'Hara)






Friday 10 July 2015

in the stars

at the party there were those sage souls
who swam along the bottom like those huge white
fish who live for hundreds of years but have no
fun. they are nearly blind and need the cold.
william was a stingray guarding his cave. only
those prepared for mortal battle came close to
him. closer to the surface the smaller fish
played, swimming in mixed patterns only a god
could decipher. they gossiped and fed and sparred
and consumed, and some no doubt even spawned.
it’s a life filled with agitation, thrills,
melodrama and twittery, but too soon it’s over.
and nothing’s revealed because it was never known.
(The Lovely Arc of a Meteor in the Night Sky - James Tate)



Saturday 4 July 2015


my arts based therapy practice features in the forthcoming edition of Network Ireland - Holistic Magazine, which will be hitting shops and letterboxes next week! It's packed with great articles on mindful eating, the therapeutic potential of creative writing, non-violent communication, starting new relationships, dealing with grief, why we should spend more time in the dark and lots more!! If you'd like to subscribe and have this issue posted out to you then sign up at http://networkmagazine.ie/subscriptions
(via Network Ireland)


Monday 29 June 2015

National Flash Fiction Day 2015




Celebrating National Flash Fiction Day with Big Smoke Writing Factory at Arthur's, Dublin 

Tuesday 23 June 2015

Near the end of his life Graves met a Sufi mystic, who told him about another goddess, a Black Goddess. Mother Night, the Greeks called her. this Black Goddess existed beyond the White. instead of desire and destruction, she represented wisdom and love - not romantic love, but real love, as you might say, reciprocating, enduring love. of those who devoted their lives to the White Goddess, and this endless cycle of ravagement and restoration, a very few, if they managed to survive it, would eventually pass through her to the Black Goddess.

Paul Murray, Skippy Dies



Monday 22 June 2015


My work in arts-based therapy features in the next edition of Network Magazine in which I am talking about the value of the creative arts in occasioning change.




Tuesday 16 June 2015

Ghosts of the Camino (500 word story)


Gripped by fever, she fought her way up the steep hill towards Finisterre. God give me strength, please.

Ellen had been walking for six weeks and was no longer sure why she’d come or what had motivated her to abandon her daily comforts to hike across Northern Spain. Nothing made sense. Apart from a feeling she’d lived it all before.

Earlier in her journey, she’d met an old priest at a church in Pamplona. Story had it that he’d stand at the door each morning blessing the passing pilgrims.

‘Why do people do it, padre? Why do they put themselves through this physical and mental torture?’

‘It’s different for everyone, is it not? You’ve heard stories of great loss, no doubt and of families reuniting on the Camino, people finding the answers they sought. But there is one thing I’ve learnt and seen. For some, a moment arrives along the way when the past, present and future seem to converge. It is in this moment that the pilgrim is forever changed.’ He pressed a scallop shell into her hand. ‘I hope you will find it.’

That had been a month ago. So far, the journey had taken her across the Pyrenees, through the Basque country, along the path of bull runs, convents and vineyards. She’d trudged across the dusty Meseta, prayed at sacred sites, had her feet washed by the monks of San Nicolas, all in search of that illusive moment.

It was nearing the end. She’d come down with a fever two days before and restless nights had been filled with worry about diminishing funds and a fear of what awaited her back home.

Ellen spotted an outline on the horizon. Blinking, she watched a girl in a pink tutu and straw hat disappear over the hill. Battling dizziness, Ellen pushed onwards before collapsing at the summit.

A wet cloth stung her face. ‘Hello darling,’ Sophie greeted her. ‘You shouldn’t be walking today.’ Ellen watched this transgender apparition kneel over her, hat shielding the sun. Sophie seemed ageless, her long thin fingers wringing out a towel. ‘Sometimes we need to rest before we can start again.’

‘I’ve got to be home soon…’

‘The Camino will look after you,’ Sophie whispered. ‘It blesses us with opportunities to start again. Before the Camino, I was a sixty three year old man, working as a sculptor, selling my art, struggling to survive. Now, each day, I am growing more into the girl whose spirit has found her home.’

Sophie rested the towel on Ellen’s head as she fell into a deep torpor.

She woke to the sounds of trolleys and distant voices. Squinting, Ellen looked around the bare white room before spotting the book at her bedside - Ghosts of the Camino by Padre Diego.

With shaking hands, she opened the card...
      A gift for your journey. Get well soon. Love Dad.

Ellen rested her eyes on the cover picture. There, standing outside his church in Pamplona, was the old padre.

The Beginning


(dedicated to my fellow peregrinos, Angela and Tiggy who showed me the path home)





Happy Bloomsday!

"…I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."


Monday 25 May 2015

Home

collaboration to music ~



HOME
Words on an epicure's tongue
that subtle bitter
lost on an audience handpicked from chorus lines
while I savored buoyant questions to the edge of your mind
knowing there will be no answers
in suburbs graveled white
but on this night
the universe is crawling
on skin soft with expectation
and I have untied silk rhymes
lifting the bluebird’s cleavage
you might as well have caged it
between your colored doubts
are you listening at this moment
or are you asleep spooning spines
bent where you have dotted
all I ask is for hail in December
charting my hiding
sanding raised eyebrows
I will lie in your embrace
and deal with the aftertaste
at first crack of dawn
in absence of verse hygiene
graffiti clinging to your sunken chest
because the universe is crawling
on skin soft with expectation
and I am lost in a blizzard
that resembles your voice
you see there is no one at home
and home is everywhere
in the vast distance
in memories' dead weight
in winter’s renewal act
in promise of my eyes
and in your empty palms
where I pressed my face
fearing my many names
but one I left on rooftops

Wednesday 20 May 2015

Rumor Has It

Silva Zanoyan Merjanian is a widely published poet who grew up in Beirut, Lebanon. She moved to Geneva during the Lebanese Civil War after personally experiencing the devastation of her beloved country. She later settled in California to raise her two sons with her husband. 

Her poetry reflects a little of what she took with her from each city she lived in, the nostalgia for her roots, her Armenian heritage and a deep sense of humanity.

Silva's work is featured in anthologies and international poetry journals. Her first volume of poetry, Uncoil a Night, was released in 2013.  

On April 24, 2015, Silva Zanoyan Merjanian was the guest of honor at 'Celebration of of Survival', which was held at Ohio State University to honor the survival and advancement of the Armenian culture despite the Armenian Genocide.




Eabha Rose Reads Silva's Poetry

Monday 18 May 2015

'i like the dark part of the night, after midnight and before four-thirty, when it’s hollow, when ceilings are harder and farther away. then i can breathe, and can think while others are sleeping, in a way can stop time, can have it so - this has always been my dream - so that while everyone else is frozen, i can work busily about them, doing whatever it is that needs to be done, like the elves who make the shoes while children sleep.'  (A Heartbreaking Story of Staggering Genius - D. Eggers)


Sunday 17 May 2015

Preparing for Edition 5 ~ O Equador das Coisas: Convocação: Edição 5 do jornal O Equador das Coisa...

O Equador das Coisas: Convocação: Edição 5 do jornal O Equador das Coisa...: Edição 4 do Jornal de Literatura e Arte O EQUADOR DAS COISAS. O EQUADOR DAS COISAS, blog de literatura e arte em geral com mais de 7...




Seven Nova : Moment





'if I were to reach across the ocean, I would stand before you, naked, robed in light, a pillar of time, I would not speak, all meaning contained within a single gaze, the infinite reflection of two opposing mirrors.. silence, music, nature and embrace.' 7

Friday 15 May 2015

Tuesday 28 April 2015



Our short film will feature in next month's Backup Festival in Germany (27-31 May) and we'll be there to cheer The Elephant on!


Wednesday 25 March 2015

“The deep parts of my life pour onward, as if the river shores were opening out. I feel closer to what language can’t reach. With my senses, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven… in the ponds broken off from the sky..” Rainer Maria Rilke

pic : Eabha
Fairbrook Garden

 I live through the universal subconscious of the past, present and future of all beings. (Seven Nova)


artist : Berndnaut Smilde




Friday 20 March 2015

Wednesday 18 March 2015

Silva Zanoyan Merjanian's second collection of poetry, Rumor is described by Philip Larea as 'a lush, full-bodied zinfandel infused throughout with the terroir of her Armenian heritage. These poems are deeply colored with currant and cherry, rich with tobacco and licorice, meant to be rolled around the tongue, and exhaled with a peppery finish.' (Philip Larea)

Silva Zanoyan Merjanian is a widely published poet who grew up in Beirut, Lebanon. She moved to Geneva during the Lebanese civil war after personally experiencing the devastation of her beloved country. She later settled in California to raise her two sons with her husband. Her poetry reflects a little of what she took with her from each city she lived in. The nostalgia for her roots, her Armenian heritage, her deep sense of humanity reduced and elevated at the same time in life’s events, permeate through her poems. Her work is featured in anthologies and international poetry journals. Actress/Producer Eabha Rose recently read four of her poems; Choices, Rooftop, Doves of Beirut and Suicide which gained international acclaim. Her first volume of poetry, Uncoil a Night, was released in 2013. 

via http://coldriverpress.org/HTML/rumor.htm



'when you write late at night
it's like a small fire
in a clearing, it's what
radiates and what can hurt
if you get too close to it.
it's why your silence is a kind of truth.
even when you speak to your best friend,
the one who'll never betray you,
you always leave out one thing;
a secret life is that important.'
 'A Secret Life' - Stephen Dunne

picture : Brooke Shaden

artist?

Tuesday 17 March 2015

Happy St Patrick's Day!
Our little poetry film, The Elephant is Contagious, featuring Alicja Ayres, Lute Al Raad, Ruth Lehane, Trea Breazeale, John Joyce, Eamonn Murphy and yours truly and directed by Simon O'Neill has been nominated for Awardeo TV's 'Video of the Week'. Please do give us a vote using the following link...Thank you for the support.





Monday 16 March 2015

The Opening of Eyes


That day I saw beneath dark clouds,
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before,
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.
It is the opening of eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the heart after years
of secret conversing,
speaking out loud in the clear air.
It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.
(David Whyte)
pic by Eabha
(River Dawn path)