Archive for ‘Ten Artworks’

19/07/2013

Gwen John

 

Of all the moments, there you were:

Alone in thoughts, and thoughts alone,

With lessons learned in fields of corn,

With pasts to run from, pasts which form.

 

Alone in knowing reverie.

An open book of worlds to touch.

Alone and deeper still, within:

Those worlds of darkness, warmth and words.

 

From Bordeaux, running field to field,

Remember all those tainted hopes?

From Britain, homeless, drifting, cold,

Whilst all around was burning light

 

That strength once learned has found its poise:

A stillness brought from years of pain.

 

 

inspired by the work of painter Gwen John, especially “The Student” in Manchester Art Gallery

http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/gwen-john/the-student-1903

 

 

 

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18/07/2013

Rauschenberg Summer (Street Finds)

 

A figure walking through a screen:

Manhattan ice with canyoned bikes.

A disused notion, painted flat.

A sound is sound, discarded, drowned.

 

So he – or she (whichever suits) –

Will leaf the city streets and find

A blanket ministry of cool,

Of heads in shades and open tops.

 

The poster slips from wall to wall,

Its message drips, she waits for change.

He waits, and walks, and there unbreaks

The cast off wheel of summer’s drag.

 

A summer in another’s mind.

What’s lost is lost: the seeker finds.

 

 

Inspired by the “combines” of Robert Rauschenberg (with a title written whilst listening to Radiohead)

 

15/07/2013

Le Mort

 

The scratch of ink, the wash of blood,

The breath of lust and love and dust,

A wrap of linen (bed or shroud),

The tomb unlocked, a broken frame.

 

And past this list: a life in flow.

The fluid stains, forbidden pains,

The cold, external brush of god,

Who whispers to the pen: “breed death”.

 

And death will come, and you will flood

Your skeletal, yet swollen, grave.

The story of your eye encrusts

Itself, accursed, around your core.

 

The tale, the book, the heart, the brush.

The dead man, draped across the cloth.

 

 

After the artwork by Marina Kanavaki – viewable at:

http://marinakanavaki.com/2012/02/07/le-mort/

which was itself inspired by the short story by Georges Bataille.

many thanks to Marina

07/07/2013

Melencholia I (Dürer’s Angel)

 

The comet tail has sliced the sky,

And rainbows with it sink the sun

Beneath a springing autumn tide:

A will which never will become.

 

The dust of spirits coat the walls

And count from numbered square to square.

Their flightless wings, which trick the skies,

Dissolve her memories into time.

 

And all around there lays the wreck

Of love and art, which break apart,

And carve their sorry tales away,

Into the pointlessness of life.

 

With watered crown and weighted wings,

She leans her heavy bones on bone.

 

23/06/2013

Oil and Water

 

From where to where the question spins.

A roar of throttle run aways.

Escape is energy enough,

Escape and mysteries in rain.

 

They split the emptiness of streets,

And leave their molten lines of tar.

Like Carver’s “Elephant” in flight,

The tyres barely touch the road.

 

Refractions in a thinning slick:

The life before has slipped and bloomed,

And through its rainbows run the tales.

They leave behind their drying tracks.

 

The stories we can only guess,

Or write our own escapes instead.

 

Inspired by the photograph of the same title, which can (and should) be seen here:

http://stgpla.wordpress.com/2013/06/23/oil-water/

 

23/06/2013

Peripheral Vision (Turrell Light)

 

The dark absorbs all sense of self.

A draining whole, negating space.

I stand and stare, alone and small,

A mind as lost as light itself.

 

There is no movement, nothing drifts,

The echoes of the first and last.

As flux eternal overwhelms,

The grip on truth disintegrates.

 

On truth: on what was built as such.

These fragments dazzled by our words,

These hopes and histories which choke.

That truth, that fraud, collapses in.

 

And I am left: a tiny thing,

A light in light, a flame in flames.

 

 

23/06/2013

Rothko Room

 

A London bright with April crowds,

With bridges arching north to south,

And skies a Hockney kind of blue:

A day for hitching heads to clouds.

 

We never really meant to stop,

There was no choice: we wandered in

And stop. We did. In charcoal grey,

And claret rich as Thames and Fleet.

 

The sound was drowned, and heartbeats slowed.

The room was emptied just for us.

I heard you breathing, knew the pulse

Of blood had found its perfect rate.

 

Outside the room a London boomed.

Inside we merged, surrounded, gripped.