Friday, December 2, 2016

Passing of Leonard Cohen

A wonderful singer, songwriter, poet ... very sad news. It was only hours later that I realised he died almost on my own father's anniversary.

Just going to potter around with my paints now, got YouTube on to watch old videos. This morning I got some amazing shots of the dawn today, and got the urge to work one of them up into a painting, and only later remembered about my Dad.

Eighteen years.




Although I can see him still,
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It’s long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I’d looked in the face
What I had hoped ‘twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;

The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.

Maybe a twelvemonth since,
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, ‘Before I am old
I shall have written him one
Poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.

- The Fisherman, W.B. Yeats

Dawn, 2016 by Orla Clancy 






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