Titian Poem

Static against the shifting;
Rippled reflections more real
Than reality. Materiality of
changes seen in glass, pearls,
Eyes belying senses choice.
All ideas, bodies, minds in flux


And this for the Twitter version

Static against shifting/Rippled reflections more real/Than reality. Materiality of/Changes seen belying senses/All ideas in flux #titianpoem

Virgin Nature

You can dress it up how you like
That statute of the Virgin under
That symbolic Cross of Roman torture

They look out across the dividing strait
Overlooking the slanted rocks
Formed millennia ago long before us

That's no young Christian god for me
It's ancient, spirits of ages long since Here; as sea beds rose, so did they.

Look, listen, eyes closed, body prone
In the deafening peace of the solitude.
Feel their pulse in the waves, light, sound.

Yes the Virgin stands with flowers there
See her, admire her for her pagan past
She is timeless nature, sublime and true.

Epic Poets

Oh, you bards of old with your tales
Of changes, voyages and wars!
How easy it is to imagine you
Looking around and listening and taking
Dictation from gods direct.

The sea invites the intrepid,
Rocky inlets to shelter the brave
To moor safely and trees to shade.
Lighting fires for home hearths and gather
Telling eternal stories of might.

The hills encourage the hardy;
Neither shelter nor cave is seen
The loneliness of black speck soars.
Still, the grey scrub offers scented breeze
A perfect stage for those ancient giants

As the sky darkens and storms roll by
Violet flashes illuminate the bay
Where are you now, oh bards of old?
Spin us your threads, carve us your heros
A night like this speaks your thunder.

Ut pictura poesis: Or, poetry in stillness

Paul Writing, c.1894 by Camille Pissarro

Forgive the Latin pretension but I'm talking about poetry and it's a licence to be pretentious, sadly. I occasionally word dabble, people I know are prone to versification and it turns out theatrical types enjoy mangling the recitation of it (more of that anon). But despite its perceived inaccessibility, for me it remains a perfect tool to try to describe art and reactions to art because 'poetry (more than anything else) resembles painting'.

My poetic weekend started Friday with Edmund de Waal, potter and author giving a lecture at the National Gallery. Ostensibly it was about how he approached the challenges of writing about art and his art collecting forebears. However given his thoughtful sensitive approach, his talk went much deeper and he shared what has happened to his art as a result of his writing and it set me thinking about poetry.

Daydream

Hand prints
Evidence of touch
Yearning pale skin
Rising to meet

Mind prints
Sight of exploration
Flickering images
Lighting the eyes

Body imprints
Echo of sensation
Rhythmically moving
Swaying with lust

My Great Aunty Phyllis

A lifetime away; another world.

A memory of farm, warm kitchen

A basket of kittens, a new pet

A whisking of eggs, dessert made

A multitude of people, friends all

A tree of cherries, pink tongues

A Victorian loo, too high for me

A white garden gate, coming home

All images to carry, she's there still

A loved lady, a precious aunt. 

Phyllis Mary Boulcott (nee Jones) of Much Cowarne, (formerly of Home House, Bringsty). Died peacefully at Hereford County Hospital on June 5th, 2012 aged 89 years. Much loved wife of Percy, mother of Jean, Pam and the late John.

Bomarzo and Ariosto: Moon, Madness and Hippogriffs

It occurred to me the other day that there was no renaissance material on this blog, which given my background, is a travesty! So I was looking around my archives and I found this little something on topics very close to my heart;  poetry, gardens and intellectual endeavour. Using a sixteenth century epic poem called Orlando furioso I explore how it influenced key aspects and themes of the so-called Parco dei Mostri, a fabulous Italian renaissance garden. 

Moon

My eyes drawn upwards,
Bright lights direct
Destination moonlight;
Hematite heaven draped
With dainty weblike clouds.
Artificial vented wisps
Compete to clothe the sky.
Yet moments romantic,
Illuminated by silvery sky,
Between my soul's windows
And the unattainable moon
Reflect veiled drifting
Dreams of longing love.

Sea Sky Earth

Sea stripes
Turquoise slices
Pebbly froth
Flinty golds
Rhythmic diamonds
Across the bay


Trees tower
Malachite fibrous
Leafy frills
Wispy verdure
Still dewy pearls
Across the sky


Fields enclosed
Emerald facets
Grassy fronds
Tamed nature
Scatters floral gems
Across the earth

Sensory Idyll

Scents of childhood return;

Retreated ignored to hidden spaces

Winter is a dusty attic; yet in

Summer thoughts come out to play

Smells so vivid, arresting

Cut grass, staining so stubborn

Throwing off clothes encumbrant

To lie, face down, in the green

Sights to unfurl the heart

Honeysuckle pinkly glowing

Intoxicating iridescent flies

To watch, to dream, take flight

Water with magnetic attraction

River's forbidden, dangerous allure

Caress my fingers, lap at my toes

To tingle, to entwine, with icy foam

Stealthy plucking of stolen herbs

Youthful exploratory palate

Bitter sorrel, warm sage, fennel chewed

To taste, to experience, all is new

Mind excludes all external sounds

The background clamour drowned out

My humming company of voices

To listen, to question, noise unceasing

My young senses are all still here:

Tuned, acknowledged and vital

Constantly quickening because

If forgotten, summer's over, dead. 

Endless

Take me I'm yours
Look at the sky
Endlessly dark
Pierce me with light


Have me I'm free
Listen to waves
Repeatedly hard
Openly there's no fight


Make me I'm yours
Touch the stones
Caress the velvet
With only pure delight

Love pain

Pain intentional
Quickening nothing
Making heart wrench


Deep slicing
Hurt darkening
Not finding a way


Blissful emptiness
Longing for releases
Deafening capsules


Not going away
Intentional harm
Droplets ooze


Screaming ache
Of darkness calling
Pain intended

Detachment

An introspective greyness
Bodies hunched
Wading through damp air

Daytime misery of society
Brought unwillingly
Into reluctant light

Concrete ribbons leading
To serene glass heights
Contents marching emptily

Those who haven't, gaze
Seeing or unseeing
Eyes unreadable souls detached

Those who have, gaze
And don't see purposefully
Willing slaves to this dank world

Serenity, Or On Ben Nicholson's 1935 (white relief)

Simplicity of whites
Circles encircle
Lines divide

Perfection of balance
Attention held
Quiet abstraction

Moment of time
Storm clouds gather
Friends harmonious

Expanse of space
Moons and suns
Shadows cast

Held in thrall
Geometric precision
Monumental comforting


On Ben Nicholson 1935 (white relief)
And a reminder of a serene Saturday.

On Gorecki's 'Three Pieces in Old Style'

Building swelling notes,

Gentle discordant constraint

With excursions

Bursting into pure

Unrestrained spine tingling joy.

A final flourishing,

Belated bass

Exuberant see-sawing

Hipswaying rhythm;  

Giddy chords giggling

Persistent pleasure dancing.

Final consuming crescendo

Over too quick,  

Breathless bass

Slow languidity snaking

Through warm vitulic wood; 

Constant sad strings eking out sound

Pitch changing mood switching

Arabesquing bows

Depth resolving, resolved.

Bowing bass

A word sketch of the 3 parts. A beautiful piece, thank you City of London Sinfonia - and their bass player.

Me and bees

Gentle hum
A traffic of bees
Sweet silence

Greening shoots
Bright like suns
But nectar free

Endless blue
A swirling of bees
Dizzying heights

Golden smears
A frenzy of bees
Frantic foraging

Quiet haze
The city is distant
Just me and bees


For the Museum of London bees (Spring 2012). I hope their colony gets stronger.

And then someone responded to my word of the day 'bugonia' on 29 Oct 2012 and I giggled:

Ruminating in fields of mines
Hazardous to the herd
Blissfull grazing grass

The cow explodes

A swarm of yellow and black
Bee gone with you
Be gone with ya
Bugonia

Challenges

 
Frenetic challenging intense
A room of competing voices
Leaving mind numbly racing
Ideas demanding attention

Yes I'll deal with you later

Fragrant beguiling twilight
A day easing by the scents
Making sense of a change in pace
Ideas forming through anticipation
 
Yes these thoughts suit me fine

Fanciful meaningful philosophy
Contrasting connections with  glee
Scribbling still enjoying the thrill
Preferring the challenge of something new 

On Epstein's 'Rock Drill'

Supercilious creature looks on
With eyeless disinterested stare.
Refusing to meet the viewer's gaze

Artificial muscles threaten space
Black bronze sheen pure machine
Contrasting with viewer's living warmth

Potent snout under curved skull
No vulnerability in this metal shell
Existing only to intimidate viewer's mind

Once looming over all it surveyed
Proud to rape and plunder, with efficient virility
Demonstrating earth and human fragility

Now left castrated by artist's horror of war
Itself caught in the destruction torn limb from drill
Left impotent for the viewer's judgement

Hard torso emphasises open curved chest cavity walls
Emphasising soft shaped tiny humanity within
Proudly, gently, cupping viewer's subservience

On Wyndham Lewis's 'Smiling Woman Ascending a Stair' (c.1911)

A dark derangement of lines
Leering out in masked smile.
Angular triangulation bursting
Moving pointedly, awkwardly.

Daring us
Fascinating us
Challenging us

To follow her up the stairs
Despite illumination demonic
Soft warm shades are found within
To drag us down with blind assent.

Untitled

Frenzied orgiastic colours
Obliterating self
Losing reality
In a mass of coiled bodies

Shapeless formless helpless
Losing sanity
Organic movement
Just accept dotted fluidity

Intricate dirtied balletic
No end no beginning
Losing focus
Surrender to tangled sensation