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.

Polyamory - of a sort

From a seed sown on facebook...


The Prince

“How often do you fall in love?”
“Very”, I reply.
“How much is ‘very’? Tell the truth.”
“Every day”, I sigh,
with a book, a scene, a character,
a passing patch of sky,
a pleasing string of numbers
or artistic use of line,
with accidental patterns
that grab and hold my eye,
in marble-veins or water,
or window-frosting rime,
with songs of depth and solitude
whose singers make me cry,
a glance from someone beautiful,
and more so if they smile,
with the sway of wind-blown trees,
moments out of time,
and sometimes just with strangers
who might otherwise pass by.
“So, should you fall in love less?”
“I suppose that I could try”.
“But would you really want to?”
“No, my love is fine”.

That which remains to be seen

A short observational piece to start 2015, based on a word seen from the bus, so it's found poetry in a way - more works-in-progress coming soon...

Phantom

A threadbare wine-red curtain,
rail hung inexplicably low
crosses the window,
leaves a square of glass where
a fingertip has written
‘STRADIVARIUS’ backwards
in condensation,
skin-greasepainted letters persist.

C'mon spring...

On potency and patience

Spring is waiting, bright breath held,

For seasons’ change, time liminal,

As daffodils put forth their golden trumpets,

Fritillaries push curve-necked from the soil,

The first pond-skater skims alone on surface tension,

In sun-flecks, early insects dance,

They know spring’s coming,

And feel the equinox,

Yet chill east winds,

Bring flurries of near-gelid drops,

Finger-aching nips and bites,

Is this the winter’s last late frost?

Winterworkwalk

Kind of why I left the Civil Service all those years ago...

Winterworkwalk

Woolly-hatted heads held low,
Barging through the still-air chill,
Gloved hands bunched as pocket-fists,
Shoulders hunched, necks snowflake-kissed.
Lowry figures half-time march,
Shuffling o'er the railway bridge,
Cold wind funnels, apex-arched,
Blows and swirls,
Tugs at scarves,
Freeze the toes and frost the ears,
Chapped the lip and red the nose,
Bite the cold-burned fingertips,
Ugg and Puffa, knitted tights,
Polartec on shirts of white,
Hiding polyester ties,
Eyes spill iced tears.

13th Night

Now we're back at work again,
The tinsel and the paper-chains
Seem out of time and place,
So down they come,
Stuffed back into bags and boxes,
Stored another fifty weeks,
But not the strings of cards because
Some of those we think we'll keep,
("Oh look, we didn't send them one")
("That one's not FSC, how come?")
A few are put aside 'til later,
To be reborn as tags on wrapping paper,
And then it's done,
Yuletide's dismantled,
Merry undecoration all,
Except the tree with stars and baubles,
It seems quite happy as it is,
I think we'll leave it 'til tomorrow.

The true names of sparrows

Bold Investigator turns up first,
When we garden or put out washing,
Watching us just out of reach,
Wary, yes, but not afeared.

Seed-queen's next, the coast is clear,
She's perched close by, the bold one's mate,
Well rounded, sleek of feather,
Precious eggs to make and young to raise.

Meanwhile, Garden Scout's away,
Checking out new places, eyes darting,
For new-found food to tell,
Avoiding cat below and hawk above.

Wily old Four-winters sees,
As many times before,
Where danger lurks in bush and shrub,
Approaches slowly, grey of wing.

Swift young Crumb-prince dashes by,
Unheedful of the feline foe,
But today it's curled asleep indoors,
Morsels safely taken in the beak.

Others follow, a village-flock arrives,
In hopping waves from fence to post and tree -
Peck-your-head who fights and bickers,
Dust-keen bathes and flutters in the dry,
Twig-maiden seeks a nest to fill,
One-foot and half-tail, still alive,
At last the fledglings, as yet un-named,
Taught how to bathe and where to feed.