Heat

The scent of heat soaked masonry
Envelops you. Forming out of hot clay a
sense of time.
Kiln-like, the golden rocks stand against the blue sky
As permanent as Mary
As the resurrected cathedral
With the gold and blue finding a different kind of worship

The scent of heat soaked masculinity
Suffocates you. Forming out of muscle a

sense of beauty.
Godlike, the man stretches his lithe body upwards
As hard as rock
As the stone in the ancient buried city
With the flesh and blood creating a
Different kind of worship

Let me embrace the rock and the gold:
Sighing inwardly, wishing to be your mould.
To take you into the heat of the sun’s desire
Wanton I lie here and simply admire.

Gently

The dark muted autumn peeps through mist

Dark and earth and wet and cold
Scientific method strives to rise
As golden sun appears
All is magically uplifted
Quietly, roaringly, gaseously
The vibrant autumn calls us clearly home.
Gently.

We are but shadows against an illusory life
Fleeting and swift and temporary
We strive to love and rise above our failings
As people come and go
All is supposedly revealed
Closing, dying, ending
The unknown winter beckons us clearly home.
Gently.

For a friend of Victoria Stamps. I only met him once, but he passed away 21/10/2017.

Lost found lost

Lost found lost

In earth orange they lost their treasures
Small somethings across the stage
Socks, umbrellas, slike, stuffed dogs
As they lost their minds they found their breath.
To catch a body to hold aloft...

In muted reds they found their voices
Large nothings beat deep inside
Fathers, emotions, limbs, virginity taken
And as they found their breath, they lost nothing.
To land a body with perfect poise...

In fierce pinks they lost their breath
Many and all fighting hard
Metronomic, arrhythmic, moving lines
And one by one they noisily collapsed away
Fall falling body fallen lost.

Lost found lost

Inspired by the Janis Brenner & Dancers Concert of Dance, Voice and Music presented by the Sarajevo Winter Festival 2017 'Silk Road Art' National Theatre, Sarajevo, Friday 10th February 2017.

Constellation London

Even the methodically moving moon takes on a deceptive speed

As seen from the small windows of this metal and plastic conveyance. 

As its crisp flashing harasses the dark lakes below, the benevolent moonlight

Competes with earthy sodium glow and wins in its startling blinding whiteness. 

Moonlit clouds quickly obscure the city and in cruel stargazing reversal

Eyes search the ground below for familiar constellations of motorway. 

In this topsy-turvey corruption of the heavens, glowing grey gaps appear 

Forming a jigsaw of the universe below, Becoming more complete as we climb. 

Normality returns. Moon recovers its extreme speed, needing no illusion

To impress our flight's feeble flash. Indiscernible against the street stars. 

But for that split second between land and cloud, our disinterested 

Satellight overshadowed our city's artificial Big Bang of travelling light. 

Walking on Vis

Night has fallen over this scene of convivial voices;
Brotherhoods bonded over the thrum of tones.
Sounds revolving around the thickness,
Atmosphere of fire smoke inviting wisps of mountain down.
But the notes rise up to send love skyward

Day has filled us with sounds of light and conversations;
Friendships walking together winding up through the green.
Crunching over stones sibilant voices harmonise.
Atmosphere of pine scent catching all with amber glow.
And our loads lightened by love falling skyward...

Swifts

A piercing of the air
With cries of summer
A graceful winging arc
Against the pastel blue

A stirring of the sky
With an urgency of spring
A vortex of black specks like
Tea leaves in Wedgwood.

Travelling

The beauty sparkles from deep inside;
To catch the city pulse to see the light.
The unexpected shoots sideways,
To glow, to shine, diffuse across my mind

The lights have been my safe harbour;
The bustle of noise has been my home.
The planned voyage takes me further east,
To travel, to explore, my mind takes shape

The old and the new collide
In glass and metal and skin reflected.
Reflecting on both leave me in colour,
To imagine, I am free, your spirit is free

On Burrell at Bonhams

Thoughts tumbling, confused memories
When connected curiosities crisscross
Like curlicued brambles which
Frolic over a falconer's purse

To breathlessly chase appropriate words
Like the tiny embroidered dog
Perpetually swimming after but
Never grasping the knowing duck

Stringing ideas like pearls
On Salome's neck, real, lustrous, pure
Incongruous they sit, her infamous deed
Leaving screaming St John with no head.

Concentrating on making mental echoes
Patterns in the dappled green oil reflecting
The Provençale light; golden, warmly
Remembered, longed for sun

Standing considering the diminutive Emperor
His empty visor unsees the crowd
Shiny still, yet battlefield battered
His corrugated strength lives on, upright.

Taken as a whole, this precious
Time capsule collects and connects;
Full of threads to knit, and wire to link
Living cabinets with those now lost.

In appreciation of the Cabinet of Curiosity which is the Burrell Collection.

Ghost Ship

A ghost ship of rivet dots

Pattern of metal unjointed

A warrior's ferocious footprint

Orderly curves follow the lines

Orderly place as flesh turns

To chaos rot and soil red

Metal rusted into orange

Metal blooded but still here

To carve a shape in time

The host ship carried its crew

Pattern of body disappears

A warrior's honorable departing

On the non existent burial boat of a warrior 

Viking Exhibition, British Museum, 2 March 2014

Migraine

The pain sizzles and spins,
Unreal rainbows rise and rotate
As the escalator in my head
Spews forth movement.

The earth doesn't turn as it should.
The disorientation in my mind
Unmaps, unravels, undermines,
Lost stumbling forward.

The stomach queases sickly and
The battering ram of pain unstills
And unceasing assaults my eye.
Unseeing arms outstretched.

Elector and Engineer

A kindly pink face peers down at the bookish historians,

Handling mysterious metal pieces and glowing wood.

They give him an occasional glance, a flirtatious smile,

Comments made quietly as wunderkammer shimmers,

A nod to Papi, an acknowledgment of mastery.

A Saxon prince argues with his smouldering engineer.

Roles reversed as he belabours the capstan;

Pincers attack and pull at the gleaming wires,

'Nein, ziehen, sanft ziehen', croons the gentleman.

As in fairy tales, so magically the gold is woven.

The gruff engineer deftly adjusts the die, just so

And carefully wipes the hot wax from the cold steel

His hands see the bench, but his noble unskilled

Apprentice clumsily works, looking, checking, sweating.

An orderly world overturned by a mechanical universe.

An efficiency of tools and the process changes;

Sheets of fresh traded wood from the east, fragrant lie

To be tortured gently to make furniture pieces.

The engineer stands to the side and the Elector presses;

People, nobles, Emperors, timber bending to his will.

These Promethean princes each praying for knowledge;

Reforming Kingdoms under a new God of reading,

Remanufacturing their states and forcing their will with

Steely determination and ballistic intelligence.

Stamping paternal authority over the natural unnatural land.

Blue

I close my eyes and yet still see

The shimmer of blue horizon

And gentle furl of quiet water

The endless shifting of light-shapes

Imprinted on the camera of my mind

Now light pierces from a closer sun

Looking up at endless blue void

Shapes of tiny island disappearing 

Whilst clouds loom to merge sea-sky 

Light imprinted on the camera of my mind

Imagine embracing that watery state

Recurring dreams of blue depths

Ghostly fingers glowing quietly

Skin melting in sea, silk-light on skin

Imprinted on the camera of my mind

I now see both the above and the deep

Impossible blue beauty suspended

Words float away evading my grasp

Always chasing illumination: eyes close

Light imprinted on the camera of my mind

Moon Colours

We didn't watch the sunset tonight

We ignored the lurid display of light

Instead we sat entranced by the moon

Casting shadows on the igneous rock

Silver dancing on the shifting blacks;

Fish ripples adding the diamonds

Quiet copper mirrored boats hover,

Shifting; lightly kissing the gentle swell 

Count the varied subtle moon colours, 

Each one richly echoes its brighter light

Turquoise is hematite; vegetation jet.

Reflecting back I gleam black and white. 

Agustín Dreams

Agustín dreams of flying machines
He finds lightness in detritus and
Potential for flight in flightless junk;
Each cog and chain and tube is imbued
With devised purpose and patient hands

Agustín dreams impossible dreams
He knows the community's failings,
The people who adore him, the
Brother who for no reason departed,
Dismissive official but, still, he works

Agustí dreams incredible dreams
From here to there took twenty years;
Complications resolved in time,
A gnarled hand and broken body
But in his head he's been in the air

Agustín dreams of compassion for all
Once he gave barefooted kids shoes,
To visit him makes another child sad.
The respect he deserves, he returns;
Kindness, simplicity, wonder, care

Agustín dreams of his time machine
This automaton subsumes his life
Halting, juddering, yet still it moves;
A new wheelchair sent to help his body
Dismantled to build his mind machine

Agustín dreams of universal machines
They mock him, this determined man;
He is not crazy, but has a keen mind
Educated by marvellous patience
Piece by piece; repeat and perfect

Agustín dreams of computing machines
Telescopes in space looking into the void
Up to highest and rarest atmosphere; but
He's incapable, only a lame shoemaker.
Uncaring imagination, ignores, carries him up

Agustín does not dream of heaven
When he is dead he will not care
Where his earth bound body lies
The machine he makes will stand
A reminder to live, to dream, to fly




Written in response to the story of Agustín and his helicopter and inspired in part by Eric Whitacre's  Leonardo Dreams of his Flying Machine

Bubbles

Bubbles of time carry us through

Temporary states, atoms in flux

Weightlessly lifted mutating forms

Fleeting and turning with wind

Like notes of the band drifting out

Down over the water, down to the sea

Bubbles in swell both beneath and above

Bubbles of air are carried aloft

Endlessly recreated, suddenly stop

Nothing but puddles, like our footsteps,

Remain to show silent whispers of soap

As music ebbs, time shouts out

Bells of the churches, chug of the boat

Bubbles in swell both beneath and above

A Knitted Landscape

A knitted landscape

Rows upon rows

Textures in twine

Stitched by wheat

Embroidered by barley

Endless colours

Boats casting off




Whimsy from the Isle of Sheppey

The Lime Street Naturalists

It's true what they say

About poems, nature, death and life. 

Pausing for thought whilst looking for 

Scientific heroes amongst rhythm of stones

The musical notes of poetic meter 

The names of my City churches muttered:

Some gone and half forgotten:

Saint Antholin, Benet, Dionis, All Hallows.

The people moved in death by 

A vigorous space needing City

The magpie approaches 

Drawn by my stillness
Looking for life under leaves

His glisten of blue-black-white

Like marble enlivened, shrieks.

The oblivious bee pauses 
Hovers and vanishes
A fleeting meeting of buzz and Ethel
Sweetness over Geranium robertianum

And earthly detritus

The squirrel scratches up the tree

Flickingly shy, peering at me 

Whilst other sounds bring the stones alive

The irony is I'm looking for naturalists 

And they're here, still, looking at nature

Written for the 16th Century Lime Street Naturalists who were moved to the City of London Cemetery in the 1900s.

Cages

Take this pain of loss away
How can such a solid heart thudding
Maintain such a pounding, seemingly
Beating faster and intense to make
Blood whir and head ache, fit to burst

Take this empty hollowness away
And fill the space of phantom heart
With quiet. Not disquiet of red dark
But the tranquility of blue and green
Blurring eyes dart, panic, too much

Take this ceaseless sickness away
And ease the sealike turmoil to lend
Calmness. Allow distressed breath
To fade, send conscious signals
Making sleep come and pain recede

Nothing will take this loss away
To lose it now would seem loss of me
But familiar discomfort of missing limb
Still tortures as fresh now as then
Still caged within, empty, pounding pain.

Poetry of Line

Poetry of line.
A house stands on a morning hillside,
Quivering through the dewy haze.
An Italian scent rising with the sun,
An intense suggestion of shapes.
He looks at the landscape
As if at his palms, seeming
Random collection of sharp marks
To craft soft foliage or
A living hand

Line of poetry.
A collection of domestic vessels
Cluster smartly,looking out oddly.
An Italian scent rising from the cloth
An intense order of natura morta.
He looks at the homely
With a half closed stare, seeming
Creating rounds, fluted and handled
To create solid with light
A living gaze

Giorgio Morandi at the Estorick.

On the Paris Version of Leonardo’s Virgin of the Rocks

Science of painting reflects the mind’s divinity

Monoliths marshal and stand sentient
Silhouetted against the timeless sky
Nature’s harsh light unworthy to pierce
Mary’s loving liquid tranquility:
Divinity needs no external light.

Only a glow from within illuminating,
Awakening the soul, the mind, the spirit.
A perfect circle of composed gesture
Human intellect a divine conduit
Science/art interpreting art/science

From Dec 2011 when the two Da Vinci 'Virgin of the Rocks' were in the National Gallery