I don’t much feel like talking. I’m home, present and accounted for. Bags unpacked, laundry done, hiking shoes still sporting small clumps of Beara bog. Photos loaded on smugmug, receipts piled in a stack on my desk, a bottle of Connemara 12-year-old Peated Single Malt awaiting whiskey weather.

 

Yes, sure, and I’m here. But not here, so.

 

Where I am is there, in that land of soft rain and impossible greens, of peaches and cream sunrises and salmon-flesh sunsets, of wind and wind and wind.

The Cows of Beara

The Cows of Beara

Where I am is in the land of poetry and legends, of An Cailleach, Clan Ó Súilleabháin, St. Caitighearn; the land of sky and water where battles were fought on gorse-cloaked mountains and warriors marked their Ogham runes on tall pillars. I am where the ruined shadows of a British Coast Guard station destroyed by the IRA in 1920 pale against the shadows of history cast by circles of ancient altars—these slabs of stone sculpted by Bronze Age hands now scratching posts for the russet and inky-black flanks of Angus and Friesian.

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Ardgroom Stone Circle 3000 B.C.

I am walking through Eyeries village where rows of houses line up like Crayons and lace curtains flutter in open windows; in MacCarthy’s Bar, Castletown-Bearhaven, enjoying the craic with new friends, laughter stealing my breath.

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Eyeries, Beara Peninsula, Co. Cork

I’m in a blue room, one wall lined in shelves bursting with novels. Tucked in bed, I watch the sun sink behind the Kerry peninsula; it is approaching 11:00 p.m. and I think I will lie awake as long as there is sunset, until suddenly it is morning again.

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Sunset from my window

Where I am is high on a hillside peering into the green and blue infinity, sheep scattering in my wake, boots soaked through with bog, fingers wrapped around a trekking pole, pack cinched around my waist like a lover’s arms, and I am so happy I could explode from the very fullness of my heart.

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The Beara Coast

I am inside a poem. Inside Eavan Boland’s Quarantine Inside W.S. Merwin’s Thanks Inside Seamus Heaney’s When All The Others Were Away At Mass Inside Sharon Olds’ The Race Inside W.B Yeats’s The Lake Isle of Innisfree I am inside the voice of poet Leanne O’Sullivan as she reads William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments.

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Mass Rock, Allihies Road

I am inside my own head, hearing my own poetry. I am the pen scribbling on the page. I am the tears that flow.

All the cool kids are wearing blue.

All the cool kids are wearing blue.

Something happened to me out there, on the Beara, in the chorus of wind and waves, of birdsong and poemsong. As a writer, as a woman, I am changed. But I’m not ready to talk about it. I’m not ready to come back.

Ag dul síar ar m’aistear
Le solas mo chroí
Fann agus tuirseach
Go deireadh mo shlí

Going west on my journey
By the light of my heart.
Weary and tired
To the end of my road

Excerpted from Mise Raifteirí an File by Antoine Ó Raifteirí

 

New friend, native Corkonian and poet, Michael Pattwell, writes a weekly column for Cork’s The Evening Echo. Enjoy his lovely poetry and reflections on our workshop at Anam Cara with Leanne O’Sullivan: Finding My Poetry in the Wild West