A Tidings of Magpies

by Colum McCann "What Corrigan wanted was a fully believable God, one you could find in the grime of the everyday. The comfort he got from the hard, cold truth--the filth, the war, the poverty--was that life could be capable of small beauties. He wasn't interested in the glorious tales of the afterlife or the notions of a honey-soaked heaven. To him that was a dressing room for hell. Rather he consoled himself with the fact that, in the real world, when he looked closely into the darkness he might find the presence of a light, damaged and bruised, but a little light all the same. He wanted, quite simply, for the world to be a better place, and he was in the habit of hoping for it. Out of that came some sort of triumph that went beyond theological proof, a cause for optimism against all the evidence. "Someday the meek might actually want it," he said.

by Seamus Heaney And some time make the time to drive out west Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore, In September or October, when the wind And the light are working off each other So that the ocean on one side is wild With foam and glitter, and inland among stones The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit By the earthed lightening of flock of swans, Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white, Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads Tucked or cresting or busy underwater. Useless to think you'll park or capture it More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there, A hurry through which known and strange things pass As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

I don't know if many of you have seen this movie. In fact, I forget when it came out--CollegeGrrrl must have been around six or seven and neither of the grrrls remember the movie. But, I do, and I remember being taken aback when I first saw the young actress. She was a ringer for my older daughter, aside from the accent. Glad to have found the videos so I can take a glimpse backwards.

by: W.B. Yeats Went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And some one called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun. please note: art by Kelly Fearing

nothing to add...

Small Breaths by Eileen Carney Hulme No matter that my heart sinks, sighs, with the weight of skeletons- paths I forgot to follow have slowly sealed rooms go unrecognised for fear of change and I cry at the uncertainty of rainbows. All the daydreams I stole, refusing to give them back are stored as silver dust and each day is a small breath.