Peristeria

By Tim Cunningham

Cunningham’s latest collection of poems is first and foremost a celebration of life. The poems are wonderful affirmations – in considerations of nature, human nature, faith, place, music, art, history, mortality and loss – of how it must be cherished. An appreciation for music is to be found throughout, and Tim is always dutiful in his particular role, demonstrating language’s capacity for music.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: Apr 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215391914

Tim Cunningham

Tim Cunningham was born in Limerick and educated at C.B.S., Limerick, andBirkbeck College, London. He has worked mainly in education, in Dublin, Wiltshire, London, Delaware and Essex. Recently returned to Ireland, he lives in Westport,County Mayo.

Book preview

Dawn rubs its eyes, gingerly

Tiptoes across the horizon

As if nursing a hangover.

Right on cue the birds arrive.

A fireworks display of goldfinch

Explodes from the ivy

Arrowing towards sunflower seed and nuts.

Then the glow of chaffinch and robin

Preferring to eat from the ground.

Sparrows are bulbs of a lower wattage.

All day, the chirp and tweets and twitterings,

The zig-zag aerial displays

Until dusk signals

Like the angelus calling to six o’clock tea.

Last home to the apartment block, the sparrows;

Last to disappear with abracadabra magic

And bolt green doors against the night.

Spelling Lesson

To spell ‘peace’ without letters

Is to walk by an evening lake,

To stand in awe of the silver tranquillity

Surrounded by sentinel alder, beech,

Scots pine, ash and tearless willow.

In their shadow, discreet thorn

And the holly berry’s convivial wink.

Reeds and hula bulrushes

Scribble in the margin,

Record the score of blackbird and robin

Intoning vespers from the stalls,

Track the swan’s itinerary,

Admire its billowing sails.

The sky too wants in on the act,

Adjusts the light and a cloud or two,

Looks down on its reflection

And smiles a satisfied smile.

All is quiet as a Christmas ‘Silent Night’.

The passerby breathes in calm,

Thinks white, perhaps, is not the colour of the soul

But green and shimmering silver.

Waterfall

Irresistible that primal call

To the sound of rushing water.

I heard it in the Valley of the Standing Stones,

Followed it by gravel, grass and boardwalk,

A patient climb as if to a holy place.

Suddenly, the torrent of water

Spilling from limestone lips,

Silvered by sun, framed in the greens

Of alder, beech and mountain ash,

A tongue speaking the music of its truth,

Powerful as Beethoven’s Ninth, pure as the ‘Pie Jesu’,

Its changing sameness pouring

Onto mudstone, churning to a milky pool.

Here, ancestors stood in awe.

We join them in the queue,

Experience a Now moment par excellence

Divorced from metaphor,

Bypassing comparison with Niagara,

The myriad legends of river and sea,

Hymns of water flowing from the Saviour’s side.

Irresistible the call

And branded in memory those moments –

Emotion’s whitewater rapids flooding the brain,

Neighbour to what the saints called ecstasy –

When we stand in awe

Before mountain, canyon, lake,

The Falls at Glencar.

Notes Towards A Water Music

A gurgle of water at source.

Perhaps a stutter of flute.

Ripples sing like violins.

Water gains confidence.

The movement grows, swells.

Cymbals and horn urge the current.

A double-bass offers allegiance.

When a breeze disturbs the pages,

Confuses the score,

A jazz trombone is straight to the rescue.

Then the thunder of drums

As a phalanx of violas