In this new collection of poetry, John O'Donohue explores the natural and emotional landscape of his native Conamara County, revealing a pastoral vision that is both personal and universal, mystical and of this world. O'Donohue's instinctive awareness of the contrasts of his land -- its places of light and darkness, its movements and its stillness -- is magically brought to life in his richly lyrical yet deceptively transparent language.

Translating the beauty and splendor of Conamara into a language exquisitely attuned to the wonder of the everyday, O'Donohue takes us on a moving journey through real and imagined worlds. Divided into three parts -- Approachings, Encounters, and Distances -- Conamara Blues at once reawakens a sense of intimacy with the natural world and a feeling of wonder at the mystery of our relationship to this world. Whether exploring the silent, eternal memory of Conamara or focusing on the power of language and the vagaries of human need and passion, O'Donohue tenderly reveals the fragile vulnerability of love andfriendship. The result is a musical, transcendent, and deeply moving series of poems that exemplifies O'Donohue at his finest.

Written with penetrating insight and distilled transparence, Conamara Blues offers a singular and lasting imaginative vision of a landscape of hope and possibility -- powerfully exhibiting the mastery of a poet at the height of his lyric powers.

"Conamara Blues" is divided into three parts. Since O'Donohue is a Catholic scholar, this may or may not be an intentional acknowledgment of the Holy Trinity, the Holy Family, etc. The middle portion bears a distinctly religious slant, though not unpleasantly so.

The first and final sections are more secular in tone. They touch on diverse topics: nature, the attitudes of foreign tourists seeking the "true" Ireland, the emotional discomfiture of meeting an old flame (" . . . let nothing slip/ From the invisible ruin/ We carry between us"), even death ("you can almost hear the depth/ Of white silence, rising to deny everything.") As befits Irish literature, there are occasional moody, melancholic notes, threaded like quicksilver through an otherwise optimistic flow of imagery.

Americans are unlikely to have encountered old European customs like using the wide wings of a slaughtered goose to sweep the floor around a wood-burning kitchen stove. We hear O'Donohue's sad perspective in looking past human practicality to see those wings no longer ". . . being folded around . . . Embracing the warmth/ And urgency of a beating heart/ . . . Never again to be disturbed/ Every year by the call/ Of the wild geese overhead".