The painting was huge.
Once unveiled, the scale of it
could fool the senses
into believing they saw
a steel and concrete town-scape;
dark-glass reflections
creating strange images
of alien things
hovering just out of sight
behind a wire forest.
Written for Mag 228, with thanks to Tess and the un-named photographer.
P.S. Though it may look like random line breaks, I've actually used two of the Tanka, five line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count.
Have you heard of Charlie Dimmock? She's the water feature Queen
of TV gardening programmes, which you've probably not seen,
but you'd recognise the gardens in which she's reigned supreme.
There's always lots of water gushing from a spout
or shooting up into the air, or winding in and out
along a crafty water course which gravity can't flout.
Charlie's tanned and winsome, with a head of wayward curls
which she allows to wander free - not like other girls
who tie their locks atop their heads, or wind them round in whorls.
But when she did my garden, there were no less than four
of the water-spitting lion heads - I couldn't ask for more -
as they played their water music in the pool outside my door!
(In all honesty, I can only dream of Ms Dimmock doing a makeover in my sad, slabbed patio - but what are Mags for, if not to dream?!)
Thanks to the artist John William Waterhouse and Tess, from whose Mag 225 this detail was taken.
And if anyone would like to see how to earn a gold star, pop overhere
Shadow beings lie within us, waiting
to make their presence felt; to bend the truth
till our conscious minds are set in turmoil
by unaccustomed promptings of temptation.
We feel the warmth of all their whispered goads
which hold us, teetering on wisdom's brink,
ready to misread a situation;
to falter in our stride and lose the way...
It's then we have to choose to take control,
to push our finer instincts to the fore -
ignoring what might be the easy choice -
and strive, however hard, to do what's right,
with no regret, no thought of recompense
except a well earned sense of justice done.
Oh, Tess! I've decided to re-post an edited version of the illustration and poem I did first time around. Full marks to anyone who spots the changes to Mag 224 and apologies to Rene Magritte...LOL
Sometimes a switch will flick and it sends
you into overdrive; I recognise the
warning signs of a mechanism which
has lost control, as needles oscillate
and register maximum overload.
Unplug wires; reverse polarity
until currents flow unhindered again,
and a temporary peace is achieved.
But still you'll wind me up and reel me in,
with no thought of my deflated spinning
mind, or damaged resolutions inside
my bruised components as the tape replays
an old story, instead of recording
a better history for the future.
Teetered on the nest edge,
flapped wings, and flown
before he was full grown?
Perhaps he only fluttered to the ground,
down, down, down...
as you watched his fall,
wanting to call
'Take care!
Remember the air
may be friend, or foe
if you go
too close to the Sun,
Son,
and like Icarus, defy
the ruler of the sky.'
But though high fliers may rise
in search of some glittering prize,
we could never choose
to loose
our concern
that they won't burn...
Without hatchlings, a nest
looks empty. Best
fill it with a new lining;
forget pining,
for soon a new brood will come to visit.
Exquisite!
The dog nudged his nose against the woman's arm, hoping she would feed him scraps from her plate, but she was far too excited at seeing who had come to sit opposite her, to notice this silent begging.
The lackluster day transformed into a Technicolor afternoon, forcing her to smile in recognition of the improvement. Thanks to Tess and Edward Hopper for coming together in the Mag 220, from which this detail took flight.Come Friday, it will be linked to G-Man, too, as it happens to have exactly 55 words! What luck. :-)
Today, I spotted a Sepia Saturday post, ready for 17 May, and as its subject matter has always been close to my heart, here's my seaside poem, accompanied by a detail from a photo which appeared on Google Images , but without acknowledging the one who clicked the shutter.I thank them, whoever they were.
Sea Edge
In creeps the water,
tickling my toes,
swirling its whirlpools.
But nobody knows
where the sea comes from
or where it all goes.
Was it in China,
or distant Japan
that this pool of ocean’s
blue ripples began?
How many more miles
will they have to span?
How far have they travelled
and how many waves
crashed onto shorelines
or hid inside caves
before they arrived here,
so buoyant and brave?
A sudden shutter clicks and doorways open. Sunlight lays its hands upon my head and energy cascades about my form. It brings a scene shift on the stage of life and I, as actor, need a different script to follow. Playwright, do you heed my words? The backdrop changes daily. I have learned that standing in the wings is not enough. It's time to enter right and play my part.
A replica will not be found in any book...
Look for a dog with big ears, and perhaps,
chaps, you will see what I see.
Heehee! No, not three, but two eyes... and his nose
goes according to plan. Man! He's ugly, though,
so be kind.
Find one small thing to inspire,
fire your imagination. Perhaps his long(ue ?)
tongue (hung left) is panting,
wanting water, or a friend to lick.
Quick! Who will come to his rescue? Will you, Tess? For it is your Mag 218 which caused his creation thanks to Salvador Dali's equally strange image :-)
Pull up a side table equipped with snack, thermos and mug;
plug in the computer and prepare to feed the muse.
Use words floating in the air
where many books have left reading sessions'
impressions on the room's ambiance.
Dalliance with famous writer's ideas
appears to make our own, grow.
So devour the library from 'aye' to 'zee'.
See? Home comforts will
still be on offer to provide some
fun, as you can (between each scribble) nibble on another toothsome,
winsome, chocolate coated digestive -
festive fare with style.
Smile!!
Pack my life in a suitcase,
like one I had as a child,
with brown cardboard corners
rubbed grey and tin handle rattling,
as it lollops side to side
between silver flip-clips
which open to display
a retro paper lining...
In first, goes a layer of war-torn sounds
to cower in corners.
Cover them with school uniforms
and scatter primrose memories
of picnics in the woods.
Layer paintings from college
with tears from teen dramas, until
confetti and a wedding veil shroud them
in mists of time, and baby powder scent
sends kisses and cuddles whirling
in ever growing spirals towards adulthood.
Tissue paper days of work and ageing,
of living, of loving, of life itself,
sandwich together as I press down
the lid to preserve my memories.
Margaret at IGWRT'sset me off on a strange tack today, with her talk of asylums and artistic impressions...I hope my padded cell is ready?!
“Write a poem that is full of personal emotion, sentiment, longing, confusion… wherever your mind takes you.”
This was a sentence near the end of the diatribe that I chose to focus on, as the rest was too depressing for words, and the mention of all the suitcases left behind did the rest…
...for the way a prompt can lead the mind into lateral thinking. As I saw a Poetry Jam post on my long deserted reading list, and noticed the word 'Deserts', my initial reaction was to flip to 'desserts' an often mis-spelt, dictionary neighbour, but then two words took its place - arid desert. Is that tautology, I wonder? Nevertheless, it reminded me of a sad little poem I'd written in the days of my youth, which I decided to resurrect in the hope that some Poetry Jam sweetness might result, thereby adding to its flavour. Not all deserts are sandy!
Apparition
Do I create you
from my own wishes
when suddenly you appear
at unexpected times?
I know when you're nearby.
Unbidden, my mind creates
a vacuum of suspense
and your form rushes
to fill the void
and breathe new life
into my existing being.
Nothing can parallel
the surge of joy
that such chance meeting brings.
Love’s blossom blooms
in the arid desert of a day
till then without you
and my very soul takes wing.
P.S. Perhaps I should change the title to 'Mirage'?!
Yellow-green gold, Euonymus leaves shine,
basking in their own beauty. Day uncurls
towards noon and flowers unfurl petals,
yawning, blinking into startled life. Birds
serenade Spring, composing symphonies
no pen could capture within black barred lines
of manuscript, perches only for notes
which can never be caged. And Easter-time
echos a message of hope around the world.
Beyond the plantation, a mysterious glow lit the horizon. It seemed to creep closer, until it had outlined both young and old, and its energy drew them inexorably towards the source.
Indistinct bell-tones echoed through the crisp air, strands of notes swirling like garlands, to drape tree branches and shoulders alike.
There was a feeling of calm, and a great sense of homecoming as the people quickened their steps, eager to the reach their destination and begin a new life.
Written for The Mag Thanks to Tess for the prompt, and to George F. Mobley, from whose photo 'Finland 1968' I chose this detail to play with.
Terri Daktill was a bird
without much wing or feather.
But in his mind he was quite sure
he was the best bird ever.
He strutted across desert plains
defying wind and weather.
But now his bones are fossilised
until the twelfth of never.
For he fell into a weed strewn pond
which had a muddy bottom,
and over time this mud ensured
he'd never be forgotten.
Terri is secure at last
thanks to primordial slime;
an image from our ancient past
he's a relic fused in time.
Earlier in the week I watched a great BBC program about a world heritage site in Messel, Germany, which has produced a wealth of fantastic fossils. I am indebted to that for my inspiration, as well as Tess and her Mag picture by Balthus, from which I produced this image.
Moonlight seeks the satin sheets
but that bed is not inviting.
Both it and rubbish strewn around
shrink from such floodlighting.
Moonbeams say " We will not sleep,
but stay awake all night,
search-lighting through the blue-black sky
though trying not to weep.
We cannot find a place to rest
so have to do what we do best -
play evening peek a boo with stars
round Earth and Venus!" Even Mars
cheers on their games,
" Go to it, children!" he declaims.
"Forget the bed and let it lie
and hide its face in shame,
while you skip round the whole night long
'til sun-flares fling their flames."
Written for The Mag, with thanks to Tess and Tracey Emin
Five celandines lifted sunshine faces
to me, beaming from the grass by my door.
" Good morning, m'am, and how are you today?"
Their silent voices curtsied old fashioned
greetings across time.
Once, the countryside
was called 'home' by many people - the towns
a farm-cart ride away, beyond blue hills -
and flowers like these would have been well known
to everybody... unremarkable.
But the gloss on the golden petals here
resembles plastic-coated packaging,
as though they have been factory processed
until all their natural beauty has been
overlaid with advertising slogans.
Only expectations and perspectives
have changed since the world was a simpler place,
but those changes have tarnished our vision,
until reality has dimmed, perhaps,
and our yardstick for measuring happiness
has changed too, beyond all recognition.
With elbows on the window sill,
dreaming at the moon,
I heard a lady humming
and I recognised the tune
as one my Daddy used to sing
sometimes - as tender-sweet
and soothing as a lullaby -
while he cuddled me to sleep.
I turned, and bright as moonlight,
she was sitting by my bed
quieting her baby...
Then she bent to kiss its head.
"I cannot stay my darling,
but when you hear this song
you'll always know that I'm nearby.
Be happy, and be strong;
my love will wrap around you
no matter where you are,
and I'll be watching over you
from up among the stars."
I never knew my Mammy
but last evening, I'd have sworn
I saw her for the first time,
though... she'd died when I was born.
This has been waiting around for an ending some time - I think the latest edit works. What do you think? I'll link to IGWRT's for an answer or two! LOL. And by a mere fluke, it has 55 words, which will come in handy for G-Man on Friday...
When Alfred Hitchcock filmed 'The Birds'
he never guessed just how absurd
this flock of hungry gulls would be;
they left the fishes in the sea
and smacked their noisy, beaky lips
as fingers offered chip-shop chips!
Is it the glare from the water, or is it the print's far too small? I cannot make out what the last line says - I can hardly see it at all!
I probably need to wear glasses, but you all know what they say about that*- and I'd hate to miss out on those passes, should I find me an elegant chap!
*Men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses.
Thanks to Tess for choosing this painting by John Singer Sargent for her Mag this week.
'If you want to get ahead, get a hat.'
As a sales pitch, I must agree with that,
but this hat looked rather silly
and quite gave me the willies
till spooky wavy lines had graced this face.
Now weirdo hat is not so out of place!
I give you a snippet from the Mag picture which Tess found this week, and which I had fun 'embroidering' a little, in keeping with the macabre subject :-)
Upwards,
ever upwards
I climb towards the light
while my roots delve into the earth.
I seek nourishment to sustain my blooms
which must encounter sun's blessing
to complete the circle
of my journey
upwards.
Here I've used the Rictameter, nine line syllabic form (2/4/6/8/10/8/6/4/2), where each line increases by two syllables, and the first and last lines are the same. For the Mag 191, Tess chose a painting entitled 'Le Jardin' by Max Ernst.
Mention a ball and my feet will start tapping
as long as there's music - or perhaps some rapping
of words that will set the mind dancing instead -
as long as the language isn't over my head
with modern expressions that don't mean a thing -
and we can carouse till the fat lady sings
an opera aria which will delight
any opera buffs who are with us tonight...
In one corner a Scots man will pipe us a jig,
in another a sailor in full naval rig
will dance us a hornpipe and shiver me timbers
as I ogle his muscles, all salt-flecked and limber
from climbing the ropes of his ship in full sail
as he weathers the storm in the face of a gale...
Perhaps we'll hear drumming in good Irish style
as we sip on a Guinness and pause for a while
to study the dancers, at this Willow Ball,
whom Tess has cajoled with her ' Come, one and all!'
I've no time for pictures or musical clips
for writing this ditty was enough for my wits
to contend with, this rather grey day in October.
At this part of the evening I'm still fully sober,
but once the old moon stamps its smile on the sky
I'm sure the festivities will make me high!
So raise up your glasses, and let's have a toast -
" To Tess, and her Manor that spreads coat to coast!"
