“An Artist Works” was inspired by Constable’s cloud study dated ‘evening, 31 August 1822’. The English painter produced these close observations of the skies during 1821 and 1822 in Hampstead, North London where he spent his summers in the early 1820s.
I love hearing about the antics of raucous older people – those humans who have made it to their eighties, nineties and beyond. I met Klara last year in a queue at the Cadogan Hall when we were both waiting to buy £5 day tickets for a Proms chamber concert. This was her story.
There is a well-known Afrikaans short story Die Gog (The Thing) about an unidentified creature nursed and doted upon by a couple. The thing (die gog) is kept in a box, feed and protected. Eventually the couple’s mutual obsession destroys their relationship. This serves as an imagined prelude to the un-dramatic domestic tragedy of DieContinue reading “The Visit, or The Arrival of the Thing”
Interestinggg, my muse of the nimble-feet that you decided to delete the last cord of our communication: a cue of ‘moving on’ or sullen irritation? Interestinggg, my fascination locus, that whatever swung your focus – “in some shit” you did mention – erased your previous courteous attention. You didn’t say good-bye; you neglected an adieu.Continue reading “Without a word”
A short poem from this time last year about trying to pick a lock with my hairpins the previous December. — T: @BeadedQuill Facebook: BeadedQuill Books: In the Ocean: a year of poetry Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys Shining in Brightness: Selected Poems, 1999 – 2012
“Look At“, a poem posted this time last year, is a combination of a journal poem and a pavement poem. Derived from mental notes taken during a walk along East Finchley High Road, it documents the comings and goings of an ordinary morning. Observing the ordinary and everyday is a recurring theme. “Look – really look”Continue reading “he growls today and shakes his whole self”
“Another Summer’s Day” – a poem from this time last year about balmy summer temperatures that taunt you when you’re in the office. I love the illustrative image so much that I’ve set it once again as my personal FB profile pic over this warm summer season. The slightly saucy, deceptively demure water nymphette resonatesContinue reading “On the verge of blue”
When baby bear had left home and then had had a pot, it would’ve been, I like to think, like the silver one I did adopt from outside someone’s wooden gate in the back roads of North London. Either the owners had to relocate or make space for Christmas plunder. Into my little pot, thriceContinue reading “Just right – a poem about a cooking-pot”
Soft to the thumb, the pear I sliced was gone. It was rotten inside. In a wither of ruffles the rose-heads have browned dry in the heat. They sodden after it’s stormed. Even the blowflies ferocious have stopped their wings, landed their green torpedoes for the last time. Something from lunch churns in my stomachContinue reading “An overdose of summer”
An old favourite revisited, because artists are allowed to have their obsessions. “Exalted thus, we left” is a reworking of a poem from 2011: I love the Dorothea Tanning painting that spurred the original “Jacob’s Dream for crinolined girls”. When I’m in Tate Modern, I’ll usually try to pop into the Surrealism gallery to gazeContinue reading “Exalted thus, we left”