POEMS

Continually inspired by the immediacy of the visual image, I have always been a painter. However, there was a time when I might as easily have become a writer. Good literature and poetry have always been a deep passion with me, and, as you may see by my ‘Art Notes’, I cannot resist expressing some of my creative forces through the written word.  In some rare cases such pressures to write on a better level take me into the realm of poetry. I stress here that I am not, nor has it ever been my desire to be known as a ‘poet’. Lately though, my poems have taken a new turn where they reflect onto my actual practice and world of painting. I have found this a very new and exiting direction and humbly post some of them here:

 

 

CULTIVATING THE DREAM

 

I scan the white expanse of canvas through the space

Of neither place or time. Drums of war

Growl as the battle of creation begins.

The conflict of confidence, conscious

Intellect and well armoured sensibilities,

Against ambitious, unconscious intuition.

 

Regimented reason forms. Beneath sequential flags

Of logic, the march of loaded meaning moves.

Distant questions fire and crackle.

Can consistency conquer Catastrophe?

Can spontaneity be controlled and trained?

Can dreams be trapped - colours drained to grey?

 

With synaptic firing, conflict begins; Reason

Cavalries hard to harness and contain

Chaos. Between accident and insight,

Neuron’s spark as breath and blade draw life.

I load a brush with deepest crimson,

Stab the canvas - push home my painted point.

 

 Blood flushes vivid dripping red

On virgin white. The grey cerebellum

Stamps and shrieks for the horse

Of definition. From laws of closure leap

Motive, lucidity and purpose;

Judgement, rationale and reason.

 

Veteran visual clichés are recruited.

New orders echo down the line:

“Organize! Organize! Make symbols

They will recognize!” But heart beats

A quick retort: “Improvise! Improvise!

Create the future through surprise!”

 

 Now brain alone cannot control what

It cannot see or know. Behind the sight,

Beyond the mind, unconscious vision may

Maintain complete awareness of all.

With renewed attention, brain enacts

A well-defined linear decision.

 

Straight arrow lines are drawn and fired high

For piercing accurate descent

To kill imagination. But blind unthinking

Application quickly checks all such intention

By aiming from a single tube

Thick swirling coils oozing a new

 

Brilliant stream of Cerulean Blue.

Without becoming Sea or sky, it slowly

Spreads, bleeding purple from deep

Magenta, tinged with poison pale

violet edges. Slithering soft and sly;

Violence assassinates perfection.

 

Before suggestion can recover,

Another colour floods all purpose;

Cadmium Yellow - flushing turquoise

From blue, pulling orange from dark

Congealing crimson. The white expanse

Of canvas gives way to hectic blooms.

 

 Colours swell and push new birth. Graphic

Lines are pressurized - shocked into distortion.

Conflicting tones demand a reasoned

Resolution, but colour throbs as hand and heart

Reject a logical solution. Unknowing mind

Projects again a game of chance and hope.

 

 Scribbling hard against gestalt Infection,

New manic marks are drawn. Shifting

Focus from figurative design,

Another vista rises as finer marks

Delineate uncharted dreams. Through

Nervous energy the schizoid reigns supreme.

 

The magic of colour now begins to burn,

Illuminating memories at every turn.

The depths reveal another time

Of lighter hues and darker shades, as past

And future pales and fades, and what

Was lost emerges into light again.

 

 Only now may concepts die; only now

May logic cease, as nature overrules

The need to illustrate and over-state.

I step back again to scan my space

Of neither place or time. With great surprise

I realize that nothing here belongs to me.

 

The expanse of canvas breathes unique

Identity; A separate form of growth evolves

To something running free. What began as ‘I’

Has now become a ‘we’. I scan the thickly painted

Canvas through space that has no place or time.

Flags of chaos fly, signalling a changed regime.

 

Unknown, unnamed, new reality enters

Existence. Dionysian dialogue begins

Apollonian refutations follow. High

Across Parnassus the questions fly

With revolution’s primal scream:

Breach the brain’s security - cultivate the dream!

 

 

PAINTING

 

 I cannot squeeze words from a tube;

Impasto them to life

Or mix and blend their hues

To light or darker meanings.

 

I cannot use a mahl-stick

To guide unconscious line,

Or even use a ruler

To straighten right my mind.

 
 

 I may not use Chiaroscuro

When whispering magic lies,

Nor titanium tonal values

To highlight finer truth.

 

But with my loaded brush

I stab the air and try again

To make poetry without words;

Create music beyond sound.

 

I can only squeeze truth from tubes;

Rich pigments of my dreams

That I spatula flat and scrape

Into silent studio screams. 

 

 

PARADOX

 

Of course, they understand it well when all the lines and colours tell,

(Despite exaggerated lies,) a story that they recognize.

In deepest literary terms the clever journalist affirms

That wayward heart and cogent brain are connected, and considered sane.

As art is easily explained and ego slyly entertained,

The learned critic will define the meaning in unconscious line;

Interpret for the muddled mind the reason why you cannot find

Through vibrancy and varied range, the purpose behind colour change.

And through this slick elusive dance that gives meaning to creative chance,

Such glories of the written word lend false belief to the absurd.

Blood and paint interlace as nature slashes logic's face,

Concealing art - congealing fear, as abstract form emerges clear.

For heart and soul must stay intact as spirit moves before the act.

The spirit moves that we may grow beyond the brain; that we may know

The paradox of life and art on Earth; that death gives rise to screaming birth.

 

TWILIGHT

 

When I am an old man

I shall wear a large wide brimmed hat,

A long coat flowing

And a very artistic beard.

 

I shall talk to whom I please

And many whom I won't.

I'll be the Romeo

Of the supermarket

The Socrates of the Gents.

 

I will converse in verse

With babies in their prams,

And ask every policeman

If he has the time.

 

I shall trail my stick

Along public railings

And dance hornpipes on the curbs.

I shall visit the cinema often

And emerge on the street

The hero of every film.

 

I will guide traffic

And hedgehogs

Through city dusks

And sleep only in select

Shop doorways.

 

 But I shall die

In the Library.

 

THE GREAT MAGICIAN

 

He does not appear

Impeccably dressed

Upon a glowing stage,

Brandishing a magic wand; 

Producing brightly coloured silk,

Playing cards

And fluttering white birds.

 

He appears unkempt

In disheveled studio space,

Maneuvering a magic brush

On shining white canvas light;

Producing brightly coloured paint,

Gambling hard;

Fluttering higher than white birds.

 

 

THIS AND THAT

 

Between this and that,

With subtle curving,

Elusive space

Encloses matter.

Within this space

Existing objects must

Endure. This duration

Is that of Time.

This is space and that

Is matter and Time holds

This and that together.

Without this cosmic trinity

There simply cannot be

A this of you or that of me.

 

 

BETWEEN

 

As I write this        

Deepest love is sworn,

Wrinkled pink and screaming

Babies are born.

 

As you read this

Final words are said,

Questioningly staring

Are the eyes of the dead.

 

Between the writing

And the reading;

Between the living

And the dead,

Lie meanings

Beyond meaning;

Life by death is fed.

                                                  

                      

 WORDS

                                    

 Suddenly my words behave

Like wagging hounds; in field

Or street, always they are there,

Panting for consideration, their

Whining only emphasizing

This loneliness.  I turn down

Reflective avenues where

Blue skies centralize

Into your eyes, or tumbling clouds

Your hair, and always they are there;

Softly nuzzling, as if to say: trust

In us. We are obedient and true enough

To her. We will carry your heart

In our mouths without betrayal

Or sinking of teeth.                                                                                                                         

 

PORCELAIN

 

Some lovers juggle

With the vessel they have made,

And accidents will happen.

I have seen them staring

At a newly formed crack;  

fingers tracing,

Apologies and tears.

I have also known

Their love turned around,

The best side only showing

To the light and all who pass.

How foolish not to know

That in darkness cracks will grow,

Even shatter with the cold.

 

So let us not be jugglers

Of human porcelain,

But hold with caring hands

And drink with kissing lips

From this vessel of our love.

 

 

NEW CANVAS

Delivered to my studio – a new canvas.

The great expanse of white is placed

And suddenly an inner flurry

Of whirling questions fly.

With the mind’s stylus I can draw

No conclusions; only stare;

A creature transfixed in white light.

 

Again, I must prepare to cross

This widely stretched Antarctic.

I know this snow; its seductive

Defiance; its deceptive depths.

Where indecision seeks definition

Through crystalized conclusions,

And gleaming truth may be revealed

By unconscious deliberation.

 

Again, I must climb these heights

Making mystery and meaning

The music of my way. Again,

Great exploration, tramping deep

Through white and timeless space

To capture, colonize, create

Another fertile future state.

 

SNOW

 

Naked,

You slipped from the bed

Into that strange light

That wore the curtains thin.

`Snow!'

You whispered. Your arm

Swanned across curtains.

In a moment

Day

Was revealed,

Knifing the room

With snowlight;

Slashing gloom from face

Of clock and ornament.

Snow

Was unveiled, a monument

Of naked rounded

Whiteness.

Your hand blossomed

And fell.

Your face shone

Pensive and pale;

As vague

As the daytime moon.

 

 

THE FUNAMBULIST

  

A small exotic insect with golden

Iridescent wings of flashing gold

And scarlet cloak, he slowly steps

Upon the distant platform. He views

The darkened crowd below. He grins,

Waves, pirouettes and bows.

From high above the circus world, he peers

Down upon a landscape of upturned

Chiascuro portraits animated

By an orange-headed clown.

The Trumpets cease their yellow blare.

A megaphoned Ringmaster shouts:

 

“The fantabulous Funambulist!

The greatest artist of his day,

Will now conquer the void

Defy gravity,

Create history!”

 

He leans and frowns; he knows well

The deeper meanings in such crowds;

Remembers histories of grey dawn

Gatherings. Bleak visages gaping and gasping

As muffled drums rolled for performances 

Where high above their heads, a taughtened rope

Became a noose. Cold suspended breath.  

The final entertainment - Dancing Death.

He shrugs, smiles again and waves, accepting

Such deep inherited Instincts

That work unconscious joy.  

If he is an artist, (perhaps the greatest of his day)

He must concentrate mind and limb

As one; hold the centre, smile and flourish,

As though a simple walk between stars

Can span all critical divisions across

The chasms of life and art and man.

Roaring silence echoes. He waves:

Moves closer to the shining rope.

A chuckle of drums resounds.

He deftly takes the balance-pole.

Adrenalin moves as he makes first steps

Of summoned confidence.

Circumstance manipulates

A calculated mental dance.

The stance must be maintained,

Harmony and discord balanced

As one, beyond all opposites.

As any artist knows, (especially

The greatest of his day) the search

Must be towards a new unknown.

Treading the centre, straight and true

With spiritual strength and daring;

Where sprezzatura masters’ order

So carefully uncaring.

The distant wings of gold and scarlet

Are held within the spotlights glare.

A rare exotic bird, he waves again.

The greatest artist of this day

blows a carefree kiss across the air,

Steps daringly on the silver wire.

Discreetly, he drags an agitated ego

To a precipice of creative chaos.

Every tentative creeping step

Shuffles beyond the known;

Between reason and insanity.

Between existence and infinity. 

Every tread across the chasm

Creates definitions of division:

On one side knowledge and logic,

On the other, confusion and chance;

On one side positivity and meaning,

On the other, negative futility.

It is not the flashing gold and scarlet

Or critic’s comment on performance,

Or even the hanging horde’s opinion

Of how or when you live or die.

It is how you face the challenges;

How you centre your existence;

Stay balanced as you fly.

The funambulist, (the artist of his day)

Must hold aloft his head and tread

The thread of life’s taught line;

Continue to the end of ends.

So that long after the circus leaves us

He may still inspire minds and hearts

To conquer the void, defy gravity,

And finally

Create history.

 

 

DEBATE

 

The questions oscillate

Between telescope

And microscope,

The stellar

And the quantum,

Creativity

And entropy.

 

The answers correlate

Intellectual

And spiritual,

The holistic

And duality,

Purpose

And futility.

 

And through the great debate

Spin systems

Within systems,

While existence

Births and dies

Through stardust

In our eyes.

 

 SECRETS

 

Place your head among the mountains

Your feet in desert sands.

Feel the living harmonies

That grow beneath your hands.

Watch for every rhythm

That ripples through your head

And hear the hidden language;

The secrets of the dead

 

 In the ocean lies the fingerprint,

In the fingerprint the sky,

And through the well-thumbed sunsets

The wind may shriek or sigh.

The secrets in the dust of death

Towards new life must fly;

The secrets in our dying breath

Will force the new-born cry.