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- A Return to Painting July 9, 2021
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Tag Archives: Poetry
I’d been singing all day. Lots of lyrics, but these ones keep putting themselves before me at the moment: So that the sun shall not burn thee by day, neither the moon at night and then I came home … Continue reading
The Loving Quark
Said Einstein, “into nature look, look deep
and better all things will you understand.”
To look into the heart – the seat
of love – he was, it seemed, imploring man. Continue reading
Every Friday writers worldwide gather round the virtual fireside of Rochelle Wisoff and share stories of 100 words, prompted by a common photograph, and exchange constructive criticism. You don’t have to write to read. Click on the blue frog at … Continue reading
I looked back, sin
safer than flight.
I should have soared away.
Zoar was not far
but sin was nearer.
I was cosy with sin –
a warm nest. Continue reading
The sun-bleached bunting rustles, brittle
as the bell of the abandoned village church.
Then, it recoiled rustling from the black-frocked
village tongues congregated to snip and snipe,
hang the flayed red tongues in honour
of the day of the saint. Continue reading
The Amber Lake
This week’s word to contemplate from Hone Life, is yellow. (Do check out Hone Life for the complete collection of reflections on the word of the week).
Though yellow conjures up sunshine and spring – warmth, growth, abundance, renewal – for me it’s a difficult colour to work with as an artist – it’s a bullying colour – and I can’t go near the yellow of a rapeseed crop in full bloom; that’s a yellow that plunges hot pokers into my eyes. I was pondering how to write sympathetically about yellow while working on a little mixed media collage/assemblage. The penny dropped when coating the substrate with shellac. I was using amber shellac. I thought immediately of heavy water.
This is the heavy water Gaston Bachelard writes about in Water and Dreams: An Essay on the Imagination of Matter. It’s in reference to the poems of Edgar Allen Poe and Bachelard admits in his observations to drawing on the analysis of Poe’s works by Freud enthusiast and benefactor Marie Bonaparte.
Amber is fossilised pine tree resin, secreted in response to injury, to seal and sterilise. It is probably observation of this which led to medicinal uses of amber, which date back to the time of Hippocrates, and forward to the early 20th century. One could say then of amber that it is a yellow which heals. Continue reading
time to move on
leave another murdering
herd, unsheepishly, unconforming
– I don’t strike
back, just because
I am struck just because
mud makes me curious Continue reading