Letters to My Generation

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The work never stops on a farm—especially an old farm, with ceaseless renovations and repairs to see to. Leaking roofs, aging doors, gardens and…
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I was twenty-three the first time I boarded an airplane. For an hour before my flight I sat at a bar in La Guardia, sipping Irish Whisky and vibrating…
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Candles flicker in a light breeze, reflecting themselves in glass offering bowls. Wisps of incense drift towards the open window. My knees grimace as I…
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On learning Portuguese
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I was sitting on one of the balconies of the Convento de Cristo, looking out over Tomar, which was shrouded in amber haze. From the ramparts of the…
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I plant flowers while bombs fall in Ukraine. I reach my hands into the damp earth, sewing calendula, clary sage and borage while the lights go out in…
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Life can change in an instant. One day you wake up in a cold flat in a loud street in Oakland, and the next you wake up in a cold flat in a loud street…
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To love flowers one must be patient. One must wait—observing the slow unfolding of creation. First the leaves emerge, and then all growth seems to stop…
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On Mary Oliver, Joan Didion and reading.
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The First Year
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I open a new notebook, take up a pen – one I do not like, but my options are limited – and quickly begin staining the unlined, clean, white pages. If I…
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Yes, other people have been through this — no experience is unique. Yet. You have never been here before. Your dark night of the soul is unique to you…
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© 2022 Padraic Veum
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