poetry

Doireann Ní Ghríofa reads ‘Brightening’

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Doireann Ní Ghríofa’s reads her poem ‘Brightening’ as part of the 2020 edition of the Coole Park Poetry Series.

A series of filmed poems recorded in Coole Park during DruidGregory in 2020, a collaboration between Druid and the Adrian Brinkerhoff Poetry Foundation.

An artistic conversation between the past and present, this poetry series involved poets of different cultural backgrounds living in Ireland, reading both their own work and the work of poets associated with Coole Park, including Lady Gregory, WB Yeats and JM Synge. These readings were filmed in the grounds of Coole Park during performances of DruidGregory.

The poets filmed were Seán Hewitt, Doireann Ní Ghríofa, FeliSpeaks, Evgeny Shtorn and ATMOS Collective. 

Films by Matthew Thompson with music by Gerry Horan. | More info: https://www.druid.ie/productions/cool…

Kelly Macdonald reads “Extinction” by Jackie Kay

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Kelly MacDonald

Extinction by Jackie Kay

We closed the borders, folks, we nailed it.

No trees, no plants, no immigrants.

No foreign nurses, no Doctors; we smashed it.

We took control of our affairs. No fresh air.

No birds, no bees, no HIV, no Poles, no pollen.

No pandas, no polar bears, no ice, no dice.

No rainforests, no foraging, no France.

No frogs, no golden toads, no Harlequins.

No Greens, no Brussels, no vegetarians, no lesbians.

No carbon curbed emissions, no Co2 questions.

No lions, no tigers, no bears. No BBC picked audience.

No loony lefties, please. No politically correct classes.

No classes. No Guardian readers. No readers.

No emus, no EUs, no Eco warriors, no Euros,

No rhinos, no zebras, no burnt bras, no elephants.

We shut it down! No immigrants, no immigrants.

No sniveling-recycling-global-warming nutters.

Little man, little woman, the world is a dangerous place.

Now, pour me a pint, dear. Get out of my fracking face.

Actors including James Franco, Ruth Wilson, Gabriel Byrne, Maxine Peake, Jeremy Irons, Kelly Macdonald and Michael Sheen read a series of 21 poems on the theme of climate change, curated by UK poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy.

Book Review: Poet and Philosopher David Whyte on Reaching Beyond Our Limiting Beliefs About What We Deserve

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“if you wanted to drown you could, but you don’t because finally after all this struggle and all these years you simply don’t want to any more, you’ve simply had enough of drowning and you want to live and you want to love”

BY MARIA POPOVA

Few things limit us more profoundly than our own beliefs about what we deserve, and few things liberate us more powerfully than daring to broaden our locus of possibility and self-permission for happiness. The stories we tell ourselves about what we are worthy or unworthy of — from the small luxuries of naps and watermelon to the grandest luxury of a passionate creative calling or a large and possible love — are the stories that shape our lives. Bruce Lee knew this when he admonished that “you will never get any more out of life than you expect,” James Baldwin knew it when he admonished that “you’ve got to tell the world how to treat you [because] if the world tells you how you are going to be treated, you are in trouble,” and Viktor Frankl embodied this in his impassioned insistence on saying “yes” to life.

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Who Killed Cock Robin?

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Who killed Cock Robin?
I, said the Sparrow,
with my bow and arrow,
I killed Cock Robin.

Who saw him die?
I, said the Magpie,
with my little teeny eye,
I saw him die.

Who caught his blood?
I, said the Duck,
it was just my luck,
I caught his blood.

Who’ll make the shroud?
I, said the Beetle,
with my thread and needle,
I’ll make the shroud.

Who’ll dig his grave?
I, said the phesant,
it wasn’t very pleasant,
I’ll dig his grave.

Who’ll be the parson?
I, said the Rook,
with my little book,
I’ll be the parson.

Who’ll be the clerk?
I, said the Lark,
if it’s not in the dark,
I’ll be the clerk.

Who’ll carry the link?
I, said the Linnet,
I’ll fetch it in a minute,
I’ll carry the link.

Who’ll be chief mourner?
I, said the Dove,
I mourn for my love,
I’ll be chief mourner.

Who’ll carry the coffin?
I, said the Kite,
if it’s not through the night,
I’ll carry the coffin.

Who’ll bear the pall?
I, said the Crow,
with the cock and the bow,
I’ll bear the pall.

Who’ll sing a psalm?
I, said the Thrush,
as she sat on a bush,
I’ll sing a psalm.

Who’ll toll the bell?
I, said the Bull,
because I can pull,
I’ll toll the bell.

All the birds of the air
fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
when they heard the bell toll
for poor Cock Robin.