World Wide Weird. One of the other poets mentioned a bizarre coincidence in terms of the image this project threw up for them.
Now I've just had mine. Shvvvvvr. I went with the number 12. The 12th square linked me into the image archive of the Musée McCord in Montreal. The McCord Museum is a public research and teaching museum dedicated to the preservation, study, diffusion and appreciation of Canadian history. Now here's the spooky part.
I counted down the page to image number 12, which turned out to be the photo of the august gentleman you see above. The caption describes him as "Mr. Whitney(?), Enniscorthy, Ireland, about 1885." An Irishman! What a coincidence, eh? Not major though - except that Enniscorthy is also my hometown, where I was born and raised. WTF? The universe is definitely trying to tell me something. Very 'Artists Way' indeed :-o
Enniscorthy is a beautiful place, culturally and historically rich, yet there's sadness too. The local landscape is dominated by Vinegar Hill, where the 1798 rebels were finally defeated, blasted back against the bare rock, as commemorated in Seamus Heaney's poem Requiem for The Croppies.
The Poetry Bus conductor is hanging out the back with an outstretched hand for tardy travellers - make a dash for it!
* ADDENDUM * Here's a response to the prompt from my non-blogging friend, poet Chris Allen;
Not unlike the Trees at Dyrehaven
Tomorrow in this place the sun will shine, The choirs of old will be recalled in the acoustic arch, The beauty of nature reign supreme And the holly trees squat and summer green, Their thorns a little rounder - berries gone, November passions fallen – their reds fired to earth. This formal wheel - its turn in turn will take.
And I cannot imagine the face that I might have There in the moment to carry the tides of existence, To turn into the wind of shapes and matters This final record of the watch.
Tomorrow as you rise above the valley Move beyond the canopy and linger Fluid and abiding like a river returning
The berries I saw fall here last October, A velvet vein of wine in the still of winter Sweetened and distilled by time and distance A moment alive in the breath of it all to trace Elements as periodic as a glimpse of the eternal In which a man might make his soul a shelter.
If everything is thrown before the heavens, Exposed to every weather in acceptance, Home, is a memory sustained By forces which are more than we can name Of moments felt and entered in the heart - A place existing always where you are.