A tour of the exhibition

I spent the last week as one of the artists at a community-based arts festival organised by this fine new local organisation, the Southampton Chamber of Arts - here's a tour of the work on display...

Deep in the heart of heritage

Chain-heavy, iron cobra’s caught mid-strike,
Halloween-themed stove spits sparks
from once-discarded engine-parts
and the shepherds’ skull and trident flies
above a split black cat, LED-red-eyed,
cyborg skeleton inside,
guards a charred-black infant, never cried,
dustbin perch, peeled-back hide,
while sharks chit-chat with flamingos
gold-chain style, watercoloured curves
beckon me and sigh, lick fingertips,
turn their faces coyly to one side
to bat their lids at stained-glass poppies,
portraits, skies and symbols back-lit
as the rare cog-headed butterfly
alights upon the pulpit and the chop-shop motorbikes.
Across the aisle, oblongs shine out at me –
images of Tuscan countryside
boardwalk shadows, misted seas,
sunsets, sunrises, winter trees,
way-back-when St. Denys scenes,
and happiness is boxed
by a smirking purple dame,
turquoise feathered hat on top,
looks knowing at a Merlin motor in a frame
and the seasons’ turning burns like flame,
a lyrebird sings angelic strains,
strings strummed and humming on church columns,
piano hammers hung on silent springs
awaken tigers, lilypads and poison frogs,
happy ‘see my bits’ blue dog,
layered skull and octopus,
half-a-Dalek, Ganesh dances,
Hanuman makes mischief on a plinth
and a plus-size waxwork hand
with giant whorls and arches
reaches out to teach us –
what might come of this?
Nothing’s ever lost by asking.

NaPoWriMo day 14

NaPoWriMo day 14. A 'persona-poem'; the prompt gave the example of using the voice of my inner superhero, but I decided to tweak this a little and go for one of the personae I tend to employ when fancy-dress is in the offing…

Fancy Me

Nosferatu in an old priest-coat,
The Jesuit once clad within,
Long-since interred, consumed by worms,
His ex-vestment dust-tinged and capoc-aged,
Haggled for in vintage-land,
Among the garish polyester shirts,
And trappings of a kitscher form of Halloween,
Now resewn, rebuttoned, TLC’d
Bought with boots for piracy,
And monocled chicanery,
Worn tight-torsoed, billowing below,
And to surmount, a black stovepipe,
Or red top hat (that one’s real millinery you see),
While watch-parts tick on brassily,
Porthole to horology,
Marking moments past this style’s true time,
While the polished dark-wood cane,
(Suggesting I’m bartitsu-trained)
Porcelain-capped, steel-tipped,
And cog-studded,
Tip-taps its gentlemanly way.

Crossing the gallery threshold

Though the Ellipsiad is about my versifying, I also do a bit of jewellery/metal-bashing and have just got my first piece into a gallery. And so...

Across the Threshold

I step into a gallery

The first time bearing something I’ve made,

To be scrutinised,

And maybe, just maybe, you never know, adored,

It is in fine company,

Trash-can samurai, milk-bottle polar bear,

Knitted doughnuts pastel-sweet,

Jolly drum-fish, log of blue,

Matchstick galleon, table too,

Shower-head pouring electrickle wires,

Quilted embroidery green-man inspired,

Shelves with new novels, collections of verse,

Open-access artists’ shrine,

Walls hung with treasures,

Painted and printed,

Pixelated and sewn,

I leave an offering,

Made of steel, brass and time.

The Watch(un)maker

A follow-on from The Joy of Broken Clocks...

The Watch(un)maker

Cracked glass, broken straps,
Overwinding, mainsprings coil tight with rigor mortis,
Base-metal bezel,
Levered,
Drops and spins still,
Back pops open,
Tiny ruby tori glint, cog-centred,
Jewelled fulcra,
Armatures twitch nerve-thin,
Nudging gear-teeth on,
Or retarding,
Who ever thought time a constant?

The Joy of Broken Clocks

Battered wooden cases,
Faces scratched and chipped,
Hands bent, or sometimes amputated,
Prone, awaiting operation,
By tools that probe within.

Opening the back to peer inside,
Brass and steel packed tight,
Organs of chronology,
Screw-heads peeking out,
Waiting for release.

First one, then more,
Often stuck and so the driver slips,
Knuckles scrape on metal fittings,
Off comes a backplate,
Mainspring housing freed,
Tempered band spills out like entrails,
Oiled and glistening,
Cogs and spindles tumble, roll and spin.

Armatures hang loose
On disconnected pivots,
Ball-peen tapping pops
Shafts from fine-toothed wheels,

Each item stored
With others of its kind,
Until each time-piece is dissected,
Catalogued and warehoused,
Components sitting dormant 'til re-use
In new creations, decorations,
Bejewelled pendants or contraptions,
Though dismantling is a therapy in itself.

To forge a pendant

A little verse about the things I make here and here.

Sunburst hammer-flash, steel sparks fly,
Yellow-hot to cherry-red,
Silver blackens, copper flows -
Mirror smooth the anvil awaits the blow,
Bluing iron from live-wire glow,
Polished face imparts the sheen,
Beaten metal gripped and drawn,
Twisted on a frame,
Racked and pulled and burned once more,
From tongs to hand and back again,
Quenched and cooled,
A jewel is born.

On becoming a jeweller

Hot grit sweat,
Burning metal,
Waft of singed hair, puff of gas,
Blackened fingertips, emery-worn,
Charcoal smudges,
Making sparkles, shining charms,
Becoming a jeweller.