Oct 2016 UPDATE: I’d definitely include Haruki Murakami’s Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World! This isn’t a spoiler but a character has his shadow taken from h…
This is a poem in memory of a girl whose life was cut short. It happened near to where I live but is all too frequent a happening world-wide. (James Bowman is a counter tenor who sings Dowland (1600s) songs among others. They are very melancholic which was an acceptable and fashionable state of mind in Elizabethan times. )
Outside, the street’s festooned with police incident tape;
inside James Bowman sings “Can She Excuse My Wrongs.”
A knock at the door at midnight; routine questions
from a CID man in a suit. “Sorry for the late hour,
I’ll only keep you a minute.”A few doors away
a 22yr old girl lies unable to excuse any wrongs.
Police cars arrive (headlights dipped) and block
entry and exit to our street. They are still there
in the morning. Policemen appear shamefaced
neighbours stand at front doors unsmiling.
Each of us knows how far we’ve fallen short.
Inside, “Flow My Tears” is on repeat.
Another one for National Poetry Day. I used to do a fair bit of amateur astronomy so this is where this poem came from.
There was an astronomy book, titled, Turn Left at Orion!
Turn left at Orion – forty years ago
I tried my best to follow directions
but the vast empty spaces proved
difficult to navigate. The hero’s belt pointed somwhere:
go straight on at Gemini, turn right at Taurus; going by the book
I was at home splitting double stars and measuring
eclipsing binaries, but still wobbled
when I came down to earth. How I longed
to feel solid ground beneath my feet.
Today I wander into my back yard and greet
constant Orion again but know eventually
the pattern will change, that his belt will loosen,
that even a Greek hero will drift apart.
As it is National Poetry Day tomorrow I felt I had to post something! This was written a while back.
What a Strange Thing Touch Is
Like a saint’s relics
for us to venerate
out of reach under glass
palettes, paints & brushes.
Yellowing paper ages
his urgent hand
fading ink leaks
his lifeblood along
the sun’s certain circuit.
Like a jailer confiscating blades
Peyron locked away his deadly paints
and the sun’s white glare.
If we could we’d keep
his fierce sun
beating in our breasts.
Priceless Painting in the Shipley Gallery, Bensham, Gateshead.
This is one artist I haven’t included in my book so I thought I’d post it here to give you an idea of how the book is structured. The idea is to have the poem on one page and the picture opposite followed by the criticism.
Not many people outside the region, realise that there is a priceless Renaissance masterpiece in the Shipley. It is Christ Washing the Disciples’ Feet by Tintoretto. It is a huge oil on canvas measuring 533 x 210cm. When you walk into the main exhibition space it is facing you at the far end. Many people ignore it as an ‘old-fashioned’ narrative painting no longer relevant to today! However, as well as its overt Christian story it is also a painting about humility and spiritual fellowship. Perhaps these are among the qualities the world could do with at the moment!
Tintoretto painted it for San Marcuola church in Venice and a copy was done some time later. It is not clear which is the original now as as another copy hangs in the Prado Museum in Madrid!
The Shipley version ( which may well be the original) turned up in Paris in 1814 where it was sold at an auction to a collector by the name of Baring. He sold it the next day to Sir Mathew Ridley of Blagdon Hall in Northumberland. In 1818 he gave the painting to St Nicholas Cathedral in Newcastle. It came to the Shipley in 1986.
The composition is typical of Tintoretto’s style: he used diagonal compositions and dramatic gestures a lot. The disciples are in conversation and removing their boots and socks ready for Christ to wash their feet. Washing feet in public was a common sight in Italy in Tintoretto’s time. The large table dominating the composition is a reminder of the ‘last supper’. Judas, the much maligned disciple leans on a pillar at the back, left of centre.
Vasari the famous art historian of the day, who wrote The Lives of the Artists, was critical of Tintoretto’s quick way of working – he implied it was slapdash. In my poem I have imagined the artist replying to Vasari.
Tintoretto Replies to Giorgio Vasari
Oh Giorgio, as I stand before Jesus now
it’s no jest – I’m humbled by his kneeling
presence, dwarfed by such magnificence, impelled
to join in at the table. How could you pass
over my loyal dog; how could you pass
over the momentous moment I’ve depicted?
I’m admittedly fast and like to let the brush strokes
show but there’s nothing dashed off or haphazard
in my design; it’s partly ordained if you’ll pardon
the expression. Remember I had to stand on my own
two feet. I’d gladly have them washed too if I could
only reach over the canvas there, where Peter is.
See how I’ve used distance and separation to depict
destiny; Judas far gone and John close by. I’m down
to earth; no angels here or anything transfigured
and the betrayal only hinted at in dim light.
There are ghoulish doctors, with bird beaks, patrolling
outside as I speak. A plague on Venice – it’s an omen
so they say but I’d rather paint what I see: tables, wash tub
and Christ’s white apron, echoed in the bright tablecloth.
Hope you dont mind me reblogging this. On a Raised Beach is on a par with Eliot’s Four Quartets, in my opinion!
Only through the objectively unfolded richness of man’s essential being is the richness of subjective human sensibility (a musical ear, an eye for beauty of form–in short, senses capable of human gratifications, senses confirming themselves as essential powers of man) either cultivated or brought into being. For not only the five senses but also the so-called mental senses–the practical senses (will, love, etc.)–in a word, human sense–the humanness of the senses–comes to be by virtue of its object, by virtue of humanized nature. The forming of the five senses is a labor of the entire history of the world down to the present.
…The human essence is no abstraction inherent in each single individual. In its reality it is the ensemble of social relations.
Anyone daring for the first time to enter the massive and immense structure…
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At our last Writer’s Group we took one of Bernadette Mayer’s prompts. Pick a phrase at random and let your mind play freely around it until a few ideas come up. Seize on one and begin to write. I took the anonymous poem ‘Sumer is icumin in’ and played around with representing bird song by using phonetic spelling which I hope is onamatopoeic!
Apologies to Anonymous (mid 13th century)
Sumer is icumen in sing cuccu
cuccu summer is icumen sing
sing soprano nightin-gal nu-ipp
nu-ipp nu-ipp tweeeeeeeeee pi-oo!
Jug-jug-jug choc-choc zeeeeeee!
Summer is icumen in sing sing
cuccu cu-cucco cuccu cu-cucco!