Preemptive

Ten Paintings

Twenty Poems

10001 Strokes of Distraction

Norwich School of Art & Design run a MA course Writing the Visual which I was introduced to by Andrea Holland, I was impressed by Andrea and her description of, and enthusiasm for the course to such an extent that I almost enrolled. I particularly enjoyed the term 'sister arts' as a reference to the combination and interface of the craft of writing and the craft of the visual arts.

At the same time I was thinking about a focal point for my own poetry. In this I had determined that my poetry ought to try and bring goodness and beauty to the reader (and the writer). That I believe is the essence of much of my previous writing in any event; looking backwards I have to search hard to find poems with a political message or in support of any specific cause, it is not my natural outpouring.

To then use the 'beauty' has seen by, and described by, another artist for the basis for poetry seemed quite a small step. Of course what I would see when I looked at the paintings would not be the original beauty that the artist portrayed, no instead what I see is an abstraction of that perception, an indication which nevertheless can have also its own wonder; but it does put me at a distance, and to write about this puts you the reader at a further distance; press on.

The works of art may have to be viewed electronically, in the first instance, however I have elected that for each poem about the painting a 'sister' poem about the experience of seeing the painting will be created, the reader having only one degree of distance or separation then from this piece. For the atmospheric experiential poem to be brought to life I would hope to see the art woks in their usual surroundings, but where this is not possible the poem may be written in some relative inspirational place with a copy of the artwork at hand.

The art works will be chosen based on the general popularity, although a part of me (some would say a large part) may like to show off by selecting some relatively obscure or unknown artists the purpose of this piece is intrinsically bound up in the image being widely known, of having been seen already by the reader in fact.

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Lost on a scrap of paper

The wind blows with gusto

It blossoms across the warm garden

If this had been an holiday romance

The loss, or sense of it, would already be upon us

The warm winds of the wet Atlantic

The thrashing storms of Regis seas

Sixpence in the bubble gum machine

A parachute slow hanging from the citrus tree

In joy we seek out our shadows

In sorrow we search for somewhere light

That is why we ride the roller coaster

That is why we catch the magic bus at night

Here in my deckchair; meadow grass, mistletoe

A book of passionate poetry, aglow by the embers

Rapture, slow and slower now

And then to remind me that I ought to remember

To send her my valentine’s vote

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Whatever the cause think on; love binds

A twenty mile view

Tunnels

Through mountains into forests

Burnt out

Charcoal stains, remains of timber houses

With no regret, repercussion or remorse

Except that is

To be near, in a nearby vicinity

A railway siding beside his first and only love

Change

Born of caring, turned into sacrificial conviction

Pressed deep; within the memories of inequality and injustice

The view now without any distance

Funnelled

Through molehills, there always without a florist

Learn, oh please my love

Once again, that life embraced with love

It is she, or he who stops and stoops for one to conquer

Go there then

That is not with a revolver, or as a revolutionary stunt

But with open hand, please take along your once innocent heart

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A search without end

Unconvicted youth

Look again into your eyes

Counter revolution

The poet seldom pries

Tears for all lost ledgers

But you know; every day 

How easily, outwardly

You gave your world away

Warning words

Echoed fine conversations

All too good

Even to be untrue

Younger older man

Bent double

You struggle

Down and through the tram

Wires splash

The flash

Of disconnection

Reconnects, but do not let them

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I drive across the tracks most mornings

Lara

To my thoughts of Zima Junction

Beauty of steam trains

Across your snow covered country

Here

A thousand miles

And umpteen revolutions

Passed by in the broadsheet papers

Our beauty rolls more gentle

Up and down the Wolds

Could you come over on Sunday

For a cake and tea

Lara, this is not your name now

No more than this is Sudbrooke Crossing

Yet love it is still she who reigns

Across your smile covered eyes

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Consideration for an older man

One frosted window

One breath of fresh blown air

Care there within you

A most

Neo-non-revolutionary stare

Love

Given and never forbidden within you

Unfair

The prayer to bring you

For soldiers and sly ones to care

Gentle gentleness

Tender in your every touch

You dare

To be your own one person

Stand tall, always, everywhere

Time changes

And you easily explain

Without attack, forgiveness even

That the most wilful act

Taken so that we cannot, can not, go back

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Out into the white light and the deeper snow

You knew

It was there within you

Cross transference

Of the frosted window view

Blown across a country

Caught up in a revolutionary tale

Young poet, young doctor

Life set out to sail

Now, in a later year

We would

If we could

Slow you down

Take our time, take your time

To join you more completely

Share all then and more

Of all of that majesty which you owned

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Forever red

I could step over this precipice

But is it that, the exclusion, the non involvement

This and that which has kept me sane

With tears in my eyes

I watch your final speech, your detachment

It seems you reach for my release

You use the word progressive

Who could argue with that

And for today at least, no one does

But this is not about you

Or your just and worthy cause

It is about me; should I, could I, take up the gauntlet

What about the idea that the student

Works harder than the master

Without the equality of pay

Or on the day that nothing happens

Either for that son of mine or so so many others

Of his generation, not tomorrow nor thereafter

Or of my own time ahead, without security

Of tenure or pension and anyway

What would that offer

Except the chance to rant and rave

I could step over the precipice

Or, after any and many a second thought

I could stay in the calm of this my lost and forgotten land

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