Where text meets image. Where the visual intersects the literary. Often posting 1st drafts and editing in (almost) real time.

Tag: Irish poetry

Marie Noight A’Shunning by John W. Sexton (with S. McCabe)

6m aria

Freckled with sparrows

Thrushes for tresses


The hedge-girl turns

The dial of the moon

womb ocean 2

Marie Noight A’Shunning

Through the rushes running

marie 24 24

Call her name

When the night is long

the montagethree faces of

Then she’ll shout

the stars down

warming tomorrowmarie light strawmarie 3

 John W. Sexton’s mind was poured into his body in 1958; since then his life has been dedicated to poetry.

marie 14

How Marie Noight A’Shunning came to be is a transatlantic astral event (Canada, dreamtime, Ireland). I heard this name in my sleep and in my half-sleep wrote it down. I posted on Facebook about being puzzled; who she was, what she represented. When John W. saw her name he felt an immediate response. Translating these feelings into poetry. My images create a parallel narrative exploring Marie’s identity.


Grass by John W. Sexton

eye 2

Along my flanks edges of me are cool

in the shadows of the trees. The rest of me

is out in the sun, brightly green. I’m green

everywhere, except when I’m not; but even in

the withering of me there’s a memory

of green.


My name is synonymous with green

and like that colour I’m innocence itself.

Everything comes to me for everything comes

to the floor, and I’m the floor of everywhere.

birded grass
Even beneath the sea you’ll find a version

of me. But most of the time you’ll find me here,

wherever you happen to be. I’ll be waiting. I remain

here for everyone. It is said I cover the dead, and actually

I do. But I much prefer the living.

12aeye 212a

And the living I live

for most is my darling love. She steps barefoot onto me,

walks my length. I feel myself cooling under each step.

Then she undresses and begins to lie down.

First I feel the shadow of her shape, and then

her shape. I could grow into this. Usually I do.

ocean lawn

 Previously published in Census 2 – From the collection The Offspring of the Moon, Salmon Poetry

eye 212aeye 2
John W. Sexton’s mind was poured into his body in 1958; since then his life has been dedicated to poetry.

egg four

The photo of the grass I wove into some of my digital compositions is from Wikipedia Commons. Credit Marcus Obal, 2007. I am manipulating this image under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2


Words Upon His Stone: Hoofbeats at Drumcliff Churchyard

fresco 1

Cast a cold eye
On life, on death,
Horseman, pass by!

Fresco 12Fresco 12 aFresco cfresco dfingerprinting

 Irish poet William Butler Yeats

June 13, 1865 – January 28, 1939


Horseman, pass by!

this ground

Horseman, pass by!

pale umbrella

abstracted painting blended

with arcane images

of ancient Egypt

suggesting influences

of the esoteric

and modernism



paler shade of

public domain Egyptology image: Internet Archive

painting  2003  S. McCabe

my painting

Angel by Eileen Sheehan


wwww copy

He said, I am old and

everything has a bitter 

taint and besides

I have only these oddments

to offer; things broken, 

unfinished, unused and I’m not even 

sure why it is that I’ve 

kept them so long.



But she saw how his body

radiated light and he carried

not just a jumble of wheels,

coils, springs but the very

ones she’d been needing to

mend the faltering

mechanisms of her heart.



And his eyes were pure

as a child’s

and she knew


from that moment on

she was his




Eileen Sheehan is from Killarney, Ireland. Her collections are Song of the Midnight Fox and Down the Sunlit Hall (Doghouse Books). Angel was first published in THE SHOp: A Magazine of Poetry (ed John and Hilary Wakeman).


I found this love poem very moving, beautiful and rooted in reality. I was intrigued by deeply felt emotions relating to the word ‘Angel.’ The air and thought around the word Angel called for earth and water, both surface and interior, to flesh out the wishes and realizations being expressed and conceptualized. To create several of these images I remixed a photo of waves crashing onto a beach in California uploaded by user Tewy on Wikipedia Commons: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.5/deed.en

Fragments…traces… of a mathematical formula by Nikolaos Manolopulos appear ever so faintly, unknowable, perhaps in three images, from my first gestures integrating Wikipedia Commons material with my ink drawing.


Lough Ree by Colin Carberry




blu flame

A trout flares at dusk,
silver scales
in the heron’s ears.

blueish a

new blue

Colin Carberry is an Irish-Canadian poet and translator and the director of the Linares International Literary Festival (Mexico).


I am struck, reading this haiku, by the heron hearing silver scales. I imagine sunset splashing chaotically on thin, reflective surfaces and the heron’s acute sensors turning and tuning. I remember summers (it seems long ago) driving cross-country, through the night, listening to the radio. Car radios were manually operated. With your free hand you would find the spot where there was no static, bringing in the station clearly. Adjusting the dial frequently to receive the perfect reception. Ambient static would slowly creep back in and you would fine tune again listening carefully. Though, unlike the heron, your aim was enjoyment not survival. Surely our ancestors knew the life and sounds of water, within and without, like a heron. The poet, crafting this poem, brings us to the edge of our deepest memories.

On Raglan Road by Patrick Kavanagh

flower feathery

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew

That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;

Read the rest of this entry »

The Mermaid by William Butler Yeats

inkimage mix2

A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.


The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower by Dylan Thomas


 The force that through the green fuse drives the flower

Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees

Is my destroyer.

And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose

My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

 The force that drives the water through the rocks

Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams

Turns mine to wax.

And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins

How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

 The hand that whirls the water in the pool

Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind

Hauls my shroud sail.

And I am dumb to tell the hanging man

How of my clay is made the hangman’s lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;

Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood

Shall calm her sores.

And I am dumb to tell a weather’s wind

How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover’s tomb

How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

A Coat by William Butler Yeats

I MADE my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.