{"id":17,"date":"2007-05-18T00:04:31","date_gmt":"2007-05-17T23:04:31","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.obheal.ie\/blog\/?page_id=17"},"modified":"2011-11-25T15:47:52","modified_gmt":"2011-11-25T15:47:52","slug":"adam-wyeth","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.obheal.ie\/blog\/in-motion\/adam-wyeth\/","title":{"rendered":"Adam Wyeth"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>AUDIO POEMS<\/a> | VIDEO CLIPS<\/a> | POETRY FILMS<\/a> | POETRY<\/a> | WORKSHOPS<\/a><\/font><\/center>
\n<\/font>Adam Wyeth is from Sussex and now lives in County Cork. His poems have been published in numerous literary journals, anthologized in the O’Brien Press Award winning book, Something Beginning with P<\/em>, and the Arvon International Poetry Competition have specially commended his work in their 25th anniversary anthology (2006). <\/p>\n

He was recently selected in the Poetry Ireland 2007 Introductions Series in Dublin. He has been a guest reader at the Whitehouse Poetry Revival in Limerick, and continues to bring his poetry to the fore. He teaches creative writing in Cork.<\/p>\n

Adam is also a filmmaker, and is credited among his works with directing ”Soundeye International Poetry Festival” (2005)<\/em> and “Desmond O’Grady” (2005)<\/em>. (see clips of these below.)
\n<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

Audio Poems<\/strong> from Whirligig<\/em><\/strong> by Adam Wyeth [top<\/a>]<\/center><\/p>\n
\n

[audio:Alfa Romeo Guillietta Spyder Veloce.mp3]
\nAlfa Romeo Guillietta Spyder Veloce<\/p>\n

[audio:Google Earth.mp3]
\nGoogle Earth<\/p>\n

[audio:Silent Music.mp3]
\nSilent Music<\/p>\n

[audio:A Viking Comes To Tea.mp3]
\nA Viking Comes To Tea (read by Paula McGlinchey)<\/p>\n

[audio:Hell.mp3]
\nHell (read by Paula McGlinchey)<\/p>\n

[audio:Idagy.mp3]
\nIdagy<\/p>\n

[audio:Those Were The Days.mp3]
\nThose Were The Days (read by Paula McGlinchey)<\/p>\n

[audio:Night Train.mp3]
\nNight Train<\/p>\n

[audio:The kings bed.mp3]
\nThe King’s Bed (Read by Adam Wyeth and Paula McGlinchey)
\n<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

Videos<\/strong> from the Poetry Ireland 2007 Introductions Series<\/em><\/strong>, Dublin [top<\/a>]<\/center><\/p>\n
\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nAlfa Romeo Guilietta Spyder Veloce<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nGoogle Earth<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nBlackout<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nA Viking Comes To Tea<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\n~Winged-Hope~<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nOxbow Lake<\/em><\/center>
\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\n

Clips from Poetry Films<\/strong> directed by Adam Wyeth [top<\/a>]<\/center><\/p>\n
\n

Renowned Limerick poet Desmond O’Grady shares his poetry and thoughts. Extracts from the documentary film ‘A life in a day of Desmond O’Grady’<\/strong> by Wyeth and Walsh. To purchase this documentary, you can email the author here<\/a>.<\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nDesmond O’Grady – ‘Kinsale’<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nDesmond O’Grady – ‘Exile from Exile’<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nDesmond O’Grady – Conversation and Poetry<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n
\n

Clips with Poetry and Interviews from the SoundEye Cork International Poetry Festival 2005. From the documentary ‘SoundEye’<\/strong> by Adam Wyeth and Keith Walsh. To purchase this documentary, you can email the author here<\/a>.<\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nCharles Bernstein – ‘Thank You’<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nMairead Byrne – ‘The Eaten Bagel’ & ‘The Russian Week’<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nNathaniel Mackey<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nTom Leonard<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nYang Lian – ‘Yi’<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nPoetry Montage 1<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/object><\/span>
\nPoetry Montage 2<\/em><\/center><\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

Poems<\/strong> by Adam Wyeth [top<\/a>]<\/center><\/p>\n
\n

Google Earth<\/strong><\/p>\n

                                The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
\nDoth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.
\n                                        Theseus from A Midsummer Night’s Dream
\n                                                                                Act V Scene 1<\/em><\/p>\n

We started in Africa, the world at our fingertips,
\ndropped in on your house in Zimbabwe; threading
\nour way north out of Harare into the suburbs,
\nmagnifying the streets – the forms of things unknown,
\ntill we spotted your mum’s white Mercedes parked
\nin the driveway; seeming – more strange than true,
\nthe three of us huddled round a monitor in Streatham,
\nyou pointed out the swimming pool and stables.
\nWe whizzed out, looking down on our blue planet,
\nthen like gods – zoomed in towards Ireland –
\ntaking the road west from Cork to Kinsale,
\nfollowing the Bandon river through Innishannon,
\nturning off and leapfrogging over farms
\nto find our home framed in fields of barley;
\nenlarged the display to see our sycamore’s leaves
\nwaving back. Then with the touch of a button,
\nwe were smack bang in Central London,
\ntracing our footsteps earlier in the day, walking
\nthe wobbly bridge between St Paul’s and Tate Modern;
\nthe London Eye staring majestically over the Thames.
\nSouth through Brixton into Streatham –
\none sees more devils than vast hell can hold –
\nthe blank expressions of millions of roofs gazing
\nsquarely up at us, while we made our way down
\nthe avenue, as if we were trying to sneak up
\non ourselves; till there we were right outside the door:
\nthe lunatic, the lover and the poet – peeping through
\nthe computer screen like a window to our souls.<\/p>\n

\n

Alfa Romeo Guilietta Spyder Veloce<\/strong><\/p>\n

I see you in my mind’s eye driving your Alfa,
\nyour Alfa Romeo Guilietta Spyder Veloce.
\nNever happier, winding through country
\nlanes of Devonshire; darting over the moors.
\nTaking to the road as Vikings took to sea
\nin search of plunder. No wonder
\nat eighty-five you drive a sky-blue Mx5
\nconvertible, you call Malcolm, <\/p>\n

collecting me at Tunbridge Wells station,
\ntearing home to catch the last of the sun –
\nsucking on your Peterson’s I bought
\nin Dublin, our smiles and words
\nbriefly catching each other
\nbefore taking wing on the wind<\/p>\n

\n

~Winged-Hope~<\/strong><\/p>\n

I wonder how you are in your humble abode,
\nin the Bungalow – Belvedere – Blackness road?
\nThe alliteration raises my heart’s alarm –
\nas if it belongs in an Emily Dickinson poem,<\/p>\n

-oppresses, like the Heft of Cathedral Tunes.
\nI’m reading her bittersweet verse,
\nand find you – skulking between the lines,
\nhiding from friends behind blinds – <\/p>\n

or the shield of a half-open door.
\nI think of you before you got your eye put out:
\na carefree girl with Audrey Hepburn
\nflair – a tan to match – legs 11 – <\/p>\n

working in the bank where you met dad.
\nWhat happened then ? I’ll never know –
\nhow you were dragged in the shadows
\nnever to unravel your bandaged soul.<\/p>\n

My stiff Heart questions was it He –
\nwho sent you into the House of Cold?
\nOr was it the responsibility as the eldest child
\nliving in a large household? <\/p>\n

Dickinson knew what it was like to hide,
\nreferred to as the Myth of Amherst –
\nnever leaving her childhood home
\ntill the day she died. <\/p>\n

All I can do is wish you ~winged-hope~
\nthat you will fly once more
\nlike the words in her poems
\n– flanked – with dashes to help them soar. <\/p>\n

\n

Dad<\/strong><\/p>\n

I’ll always remember those Sunday drives home.
\nHow a blackening silence came over us
\nwith the night. I’d look back at the road
\nwe set out on when our weekend had begun: <\/p>\n

singing songs, stopping at petrol stations
\nat the back of beyond, turning off the beaten
\ntrack and finding a pub for lunch –
\nwith swings and climbing frames to play on. <\/p>\n

But all that was fading fast, as signs marked
\nthe dwindling miles, oncoming headlights
\ndazzled us, the final catseyes blinked past
\nand the road emptied – losing its nerve <\/p>\n

as we curved off the motorway. Then the real
\ndarkness set in – and the chill of parting
\nmade me numb. I’d run upstairs to my room
\nwithout a word spoken, and out the corner <\/p>\n

of my window watch your silver Citroen slip
\ninto the night; a final sliver of light then total eclipse.
\nAnother week of staring into space in classrooms,
\nwaiting for our next outing all together. Save mum. <\/p>\n

\n

Leland Bardwell<\/strong><\/p>\n

night I could not sleep
\nI came to read you in lamplight –
\npoking out the rushes
\nof books, festooned on my shelves
\nthat I look upon as family.
\nBut Leland, you were the least familiar
\nof kith and kin, given me
\nby your son, Nicholas in Dingle.
\nAnd so, Leland Bardwell,
\nI stretched out your pages like arms
\nand undressed you
\nwith my eyes, my ears, my nose, my hands,
\nmy mouth – watering inside –
\ndevoured you! Night I could not sleep,
\nLeland Bardwell
\nI came to you out of the rushes of bed sheets,
\nand held your slender spine
\ntenderly as the first time I found poetry
\nsinging in me.
\nThe lines of your life on Lower Leeson Street
\nopened and closed like doors
\nin my mind, and the sun and moon rose
\nat the same time.
\nLeland Bardwell, night I could not sleep
\nI came to raise the dead
\nweight of my head from its rushes of knots
\nand lay it on your lap
\nwhere your lyrics ran like fingers through my locks.
\nNight cannot contain
\nthe strain of thoughts that fly between these walls –
\nso I have come
\nto settle them in words
\nplucking them
\nfrom the air, where all things come.
\nSuch thoughts
\nI had while reading you Leland Bardwell,
\nnight I could not sleep.<\/p>\n

\n

Chamber Music<\/strong><\/p>\n

The one piece of music that churns my stomach
\nis Shubert’s Quintet in C. <\/p>\n

Since my grandmother told me
\nthis is what Nazi officers played full volume <\/p>\n

to drown out the moans of millions of Jews
\nas they were led into gas chambers. <\/p>\n

No matter how stirring a pitch the violins reach,
\nor how plangently the rasping cellos sigh – <\/p>\n

I see their gaunt naked forms fall like flies –
\nin a poisonous fog; reduced to cow pat <\/p>\n

lining the floors, then shit-shovelled into pits –
\nwhile the whole movement plays over and again <\/p>\n

never reaching the end, like a scratched record
\nthat keeps jumping back. <\/p>\n

\n

Blackout<\/strong><\/p>\n

After the dust settled
\nand the rubble had gone –
\nthe sirens ceased to call <\/p>\n

and our husbands came home;
\nwe no longer had the excuse
\nto roam the streets at night –<\/p>\n

and rendezvous, catching
\neach other’s eyes in the light
\nof bombed out buildings – <\/p>\n

as we did during the blitz.
\nYou’d put your coat
\nround my bare shoulders <\/p>\n

and we’d suck down
\nyour last cigarette.
\nFags are always nicer shared. <\/p>\n

Your whispering breath tickling
\nmy ear, red lipstick coating the butt.
\nThe rush and blush of the city on fire, <\/p>\n

echoed my heart, thumping
\nlike a bomb about to go off.
\nAt first, I thought it was only us, <\/p>\n

but then I noticed others;
\nhearing muffled moans
\nbehind cloaked windows. <\/p>\n

Sometimes I wished the whole city
\nwould turn to ashes, leaving you and me,
\na Madam and Eve, betwixt and between.<\/p>\n

On nights when you never came
\nI’d wander alone amid the blaze
\ntrying to find you in alleys <\/p>\n

we had known – the black curtains
\nflapping out of windows, like ghosts;
\nblowing me out like a flame. <\/p>\n

\n

Dirge of a Domestic Husband<\/strong><\/p>\n

I am a domestic Husband.
\nAnd I live on the outskirts
\nof my wife’s skirts
\nin a house of sticks, on a cliff,
\noverlooking the sea,
\nout on a limb of a peninsula
\ndangling precariously
\noff my daddy toe
\nin the foothills of Cork County.
\nI have escaped the fast lane
\nof the city
\nand opted for the quiet path
\nin the country.
\nAnd I drown my sorrows
\nin the bubbles of washing-up.
\nAnd I hang my wet dreams
\non the washing line.
\nAnd I iron the creases
\nof my overcast thoughts,
\nburying them like secrets
\nin the airing cupboard.
\nAnd I pick out words
\nthat ring true on the radio
\nand repeat them over and over:
\ntristesse, rigmarole, laborious;
\ngoing inside them
\ntill they make no sense,
\nthen wash my hands of them.
\nAnd I sit on the fence and stare at the cows
\ntalking in long confirmative vowels.
\nI am so busy sweeping dust
\nunder the carpets,
\nI have no time to think about
\nmy part in society.
\nI wait for my bread-winning,
\nlife-giving wife to swim home,
\nbearing gifts from the city
\nand news of hope.<\/p>\n

\n

Famous Danish Poets<\/strong>
\n(for Mike)<\/p>\n

Over Danish pastries and tea,
\nI asked my wife do you know of any
\nfamous Danish poets? She said no
\nI do not know of any famous Danish poets. <\/p>\n

I said do you know why you do not
\nknow of any famous Danish poets?
\nShe said no I do not know why I do not
\nknow of any famous Danish poets.<\/p>\n

So I took a line from a Robbie Burns
\npoem: My love is like a red, red rose;
\nand regurgitated in Danish: My love is like:
\nA ROUERR, ROUERR BLOMSTER! <\/p>\n

Sounds like someone throwing up, said my wife.
\nThat is why there are no famous Danish poets. <\/p>\n

\n

Oxbow Lake<\/strong><\/p>\n

From Lesotho to Sullivan’s Quay,
\nMaurice Scully inscribed in his book
\nof poetry to me. Because I caught
\nwind of him mentioning a Basotho blanket
\nin one of his poems. We got
\ntalking – how we both went to Lesotho:
\nseeking adventure, growing our hair.
\nAnd we ran through places
\nwe visited there, like a river snaking down
\nthe mountains, till our paths
\ncriss-crossed here – converging
\nlike an oxbow lake. From The Kingdom in the Sky
\nto the People’s Republic of Cork
\nbelow the sea. And under his signature
\nX marked the spot to me.<\/p>\n

X marked the spot to me
\nbelow the sea, and under his signature,
\nto the People’s Republic of Cork.
\nLike an oxbow lake from The Kingdom in the Sky,
\ncriss-crossed here – converging
\nthe mountains. Till our paths
\nwe visited there, like a river snaking down.
\nAnd we ran through places,
\nseeking adventure, growing our hair.
\nTalking – how we both went to Lesotho
\nin one of his poems. We got
\nwind of him mentioning a Basotho blanket
\nof poetry to me. Because I caught
\nMaurice Scully – inscribed in his book,
\nFrom Lesotho to Sullivan’s Quay.
\n<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

Poetry Workshops<\/strong> by Adam Wyeth [top<\/a>]<\/center><\/p>\n
\n

Every Monday in Association with Tigh Filí<\/a>, a fun and inspiring course led by poet, Adam Wyeth.<\/p>\n

Creative Writing Workshops (Monday 11 – 1pm)<\/strong><\/p>\n

For anyone interested in poetry or creative writing, Adam’s inspirational workshops are not to be missed. During the course, you will be set fun and stimulating exercises to help free up the imagination. You will learn about craft and technique, discover ways to improve your range and ability as a writer and look at ways of getting your work published. Also find out why losing your voice and writing about what you don’t know is so important – all this and much more.<\/p>\n

All you need is paper, pen and your imagination!<\/p>\n

Poetry Appreciation Workshops (Monday 2-4pm)<\/strong><\/p>\n

Discover a language within a language. Enjoy and savour a wealth of poems by a wide-selection of contemporary leading poets from around the world. The sessions will entail reading several poems in a group and garnering an in-depth understanding of the poem and poet through discussion.<\/p>\n

Venue<\/strong>: Tigh Filí Gallery, Cork Arts Theatre, Carroll’s Quay<\/p>\n

For your place Contact Adam on 086 3166300 or email Adam here<\/a><\/p>\n

Also starting soon – evening Creative Writing Workshops. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

AUDIO POEMS | VIDEO CLIPS | POETRY FILMS | POETRY | WORKSHOPS Adam Wyeth is from Sussex and now lives in County Cork. His poems have been published in numerous literary journals, anthologized in the O’Brien Press Award winning book, Something Beginning with P, and the Arvon International Poetry Competition have specially commended his work […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":16,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-17","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.obheal.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/17","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.obheal.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.obheal.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.obheal.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.obheal.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.obheal.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/17\/revisions"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.obheal.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/16"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.obheal.ie\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}