Free Delivery within Ireland
 

Small World

Haiku on the Way

Author(s): Dermot OBrien

ISBN13: 9781853907036

ISBN10: 1853907030

Publisher: Veritas Publications

Bookmark and Share
 
 


  • In an imperfect world, our consciousness of creation is not always as clear as it might be. One of the purposes of prayer is to enable us to become more aware of God, ourselves and our world. In a state of perfect awareness everything would be understood. Small World by Dermot OBrien, a collection of short poems in haiku form, contains moments of this awareness.
    Written by the author while residing at St Aidans Monastery in Ferns, Co. Wexford, the inspiration for the poems comes from the life of prayer in the monastery and the everyday life in the countryside surrounding the town of Ferns.

    Small World will appeal to anyone who has ever had reason to struggle with their faith. Like stepping stones across a stream, the haiku offer a foot-hold in the flux of time, and a pointer to God, the ultimate reality.

  • Dermot OBrien



  • Be the first to review this product


    In an imperfect world, our consciousness of creation is not always as clear as it might be. One of the purposes of prayer is to enable us to become more aware of God, ourselves and our world. In a state of perfect awareness everything would be understood. Small World by Dermot OBrien, a collection of short poems in haiku form, contains moments of this awareness.

    Written by the author while residing at St Aidans Monastery in Ferns, Co. Wexford, the inspiration for the poems comes from the life of prayer in the monastery and the everyday life in the countryside surrounding the town of Ferns.

    Small World will appeal to anyone who has ever had reason to struggle with their faith. Like stepping stones across a stream, the haiku offer a foot-hold in the flux of time, and a pointer to God, the ultimate reality.

    - Irish Catholic

  • The geese in the yard
    suddenly alarmed somewhere
    behind the clutter

    ...

    The end of the year
    a country boy made of straw
    proclaims Halloween

    ...

    Beyond a hedge row
    beet tumbling into a truck
    ready to move out

    ...

    The rain on the roof
    a welcome patter when all
    within weatherproof

    ...

    A basket of fruit
    pumpkins, apples and nuts
    placed among straw bales

    ...

    For those out of doors
    and without a home a prayer
    to God to shield them

    ...

    Of similar hue
    the moon and cloud across the sky
    towards Novembers end

    ...

    Equal before God
    every human being all by
    divine grace redeemed

    ...

    Still to be cycling
    when all the world goes by car
    resurrects the past

    ...

    To see the cup raised
    for the fifteenth time in little
    over a century

    ...

    Fast down a steep hill
    an old man finds again
    the laughter of his youth

    ...

    Those championship days
    with all to play for the county
    alive with colour

    ...

    Sprinting onto a field
    in the best of form ready
    to take on the world

    ...

    The balance deciding
    over the times of grief joy
    wins out in the end

    ...

    Late in his career
    he rises high to catch a ball
    and put it over the bar

    ...

    Gathering the fans
    on All-Ireland day the stations
    with train after train

    ...

    The moon over Saul
    on a clear night St Patrick
    at home in heaven

    ...

    The pearl among stars
    his new found knowledge of God
    on a cold hill-top

    ...

    Beneath the bright stars
    a boy on a hill sensing
    the nearness of God

    ...

    The prayer he had learnt
    as a child at home exiled
    now brings him to God

    ...

    Growing so quickly
    on a foreign hill Patrick
    in the love of God

    ...

    Rescued from the mud
    to be placed high on a wall
    he sees the whole world

    ...

    Above the street-lights
    of a small town the stars
    shining in silence

    ...

    After his escape
    grown to maturity he hears
    the call to return

    ...

    The hills over hills
    and then the distant mountains
    vague in a spring haze

    ...

    The undisturbed bank
    of a country by-road bright
    with yellow primroses

    ...

    An abandoned house
    the strawberry shrubs in April
    continue to flower

    ...

    Lying on its side
    a pony in a spring field
    enjoys the suns warmth

    ...

    The trickle of streams
    in the dips among the hills
    all without a name

    ...

    The flick of a tail
    otherwise motionless horses
    in a sun-lit field

    ...

    Cut from the bank-side
    the furze bushes in the stream
    beginning to fade

    ...

    The breeze in its mane
    a pony lying on the grass
    unwilling to stir

    ...

    The swathe after swathe
    until nothing stands save the
    foxgloves by the ditch

    ...

    The sound of a train
    in late afternoon its time
    to gather in the cows

    ...

    A row of poplars
    between meadows by the river
    leaves singing in June

    ...

    Milk in a bucket
    the cream rising to the top
    in the cool of the kitchen

    ...

    One by one the cocks rise
    the count of ten, twenty twenty-five
    shaped against the rain

    ...

    The dew on the fields
    of early morning the tracks
    the cows make to the shed

    ...

    Walking between swathes
    laid down in the sun the stems
    of grass and wild flowers

    ...

    Around the meadow
    the horse-drawn wheel-rake sweeps
    as if in a dream

    ...

    As a fledgling bird
    will cry from the same place
    waiting on its mother

    ...

    Swirling in the light
    of a foggy evening smoke
    from an unseen chimney

    ...

    Trusting in providence
    eternity over time life
    in the care of God

    ...

    In his name our names
    becoming divine adopted
    through love of a lamb

    ...

    The still point of all
    around which everything moves
    is the love of God

    ...

    The full gift of Christ
    a place in heaven his life
    the price that was paid

    ...

    Name above all names
    the Lord of all the person
    of Christ born on earth

    ...

    A night without stars
    the country shrouded in fog
    lights disembodied

    ...

    The sleeves of yellow
    the gorse among the saplings
    of evergreen firs

    ...

    The tips of fir-trees
    aspiring to the heights lonely
    under the passing clouds

    ...

    The moss on a log
    still damp after recent rain
    sun and wind will dry

    ...

    Gorse between the fields
    on the uplands of Slieve Bu?¡
    rain clouds passing by

    ...

    A mass on a rock
    the mountains all around
    the clouds overhead

    ...

    A small meadow-brown
    its wings outstretched on a leaf
    painted cream markings

    ...

    The narrowing track
    leading out of the wood-land
    grass along its centre

    ...

    As yellow as gorse
    the empty fertilizer bags
    left in a wheat-field
Availability: 3 in stock
€12.50


Small World