More from the Dissertation Series, this time a response to the Delineate Exhibition featuring Matthew Shelton at Dean Clough Gallery - Halifax, February 2007
Mirror image 
Catch 22 at Delineate
Your art in lines
Layered
On lost and found and printed paper
Tea party words saved for a canvas
Backdrops collected from the streets
For your de-linear exhibition space
Is this a breach of copyright?
Or did you gain your permissions from the original graphic artists
Or typesetters
Or menu makers
Or authors, or writers
Or tramps, or vagrants
Or ladies of the night
Or your otherwise
Catch-22 mad hatters
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Monday, 7 March 2011
Artistic Motivation - Trapped
The first poem from the Dissertation series, written whilst visiting Lucy Jones' Exhibition Looking at Self in Lincoln's Usher Gallery, January 2007.
Trapped
A double gin injected with tomato juice and liquorice syrup
The consistency of Havoline engine oil, but less fluid
Tumbled over rocks, sharp spikes, granite cliffs
Hung, as if suspended from the Old Man of Hoy
Hung-over, above the crashing sea
Twisted, contorted, bare feet find a footing - the drugs kick in
Sod the lot of them; but that won't do relax, reflect
Climb with uneasy wild steps, burn those broken step bridges
Beyond the smoke of roast skin, keep the fires, the braziers, the beacons
Always the shout - bastards, why me, why anyone?
Twitch, shudder, slaver on the pavement - bugger it
If only for a day I could wear more human, less humanoids shoes
Trapped
A double gin injected with tomato juice and liquorice syrup
The consistency of Havoline engine oil, but less fluid
Tumbled over rocks, sharp spikes, granite cliffs
Hung, as if suspended from the Old Man of Hoy
Hung-over, above the crashing sea
Twisted, contorted, bare feet find a footing - the drugs kick in
Sod the lot of them; but that won't do relax, reflect
Climb with uneasy wild steps, burn those broken step bridges
Beyond the smoke of roast skin, keep the fires, the braziers, the beacons
Always the shout - bastards, why me, why anyone?
Twitch, shudder, slaver on the pavement - bugger it
If only for a day I could wear more human, less humanoids shoes
Friday, 4 March 2011
Some Trickier Poems with Conflicts
How many times can the one man poet fail, how many lines of missed pronunciation
Smile to yourself lad, you self publishing fool, its cool to
I have to make up rules, I have to find a proof reader
Engaged with my own over enthusiastic pool of talents
The rush is done, the pages are loaded
I will be goaded no more, no more do you hear
For I fear the corrections will never end
Please friend (or foe) take it as read
Instead of complaint show some restraint, praise me for me
It's free after all, so let it be, let it be
Smile to yourself lad, you self publishing fool, its cool to
I have to make up rules, I have to find a proof reader
Engaged with my own over enthusiastic pool of talents
The rush is done, the pages are loaded
I will be goaded no more, no more do you hear
For I fear the corrections will never end
Please friend (or foe) take it as read
Instead of complaint show some restraint, praise me for me
It's free after all, so let it be, let it be
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Time on ones own
That there might be something in the effect of time spent alone, time spent on ones own either by choice, or as a necessity due to a particular way of life.
When do we first notice that we are on our own.
I moved to the small town of Holmfirth when I was thirteen. Eventually I left behind my friends in the tiny village of Birdsedge, some six miles away, but not until I had spent many weeks cycling to and fro.
One day I was sat in Victoria Park watching some boys play football. I thought if I watched them often enough they might ask me to join them. After several days as a spectator I did join in, they became my friends, I was soon a member of their gang.
This ice breaker led to many more friendships, more friendships than I am now able to recollect, it was a significant step, and it was a step I was conscious had to be taken. It was a time when I knew I was on my own.
When do we move from being uncomfortable on our own to being happy or content to be on our own.
The time sat watching the boys playing football, waiting to be asked to join in, was not comfortable. It was probably also a discomfort to the boys to see me sat there, sat alone, day after day.
Yet some days not everyone would join in at football, sometimes people would go off fishing or cycling, go off doing solitary activities, mostly I would stay with what was left of the group. I had had my time alone.
When do we first notice that we are on our own.
I moved to the small town of Holmfirth when I was thirteen. Eventually I left behind my friends in the tiny village of Birdsedge, some six miles away, but not until I had spent many weeks cycling to and fro.
One day I was sat in Victoria Park watching some boys play football. I thought if I watched them often enough they might ask me to join them. After several days as a spectator I did join in, they became my friends, I was soon a member of their gang.
This ice breaker led to many more friendships, more friendships than I am now able to recollect, it was a significant step, and it was a step I was conscious had to be taken. It was a time when I knew I was on my own.
When do we move from being uncomfortable on our own to being happy or content to be on our own.
The time sat watching the boys playing football, waiting to be asked to join in, was not comfortable. It was probably also a discomfort to the boys to see me sat there, sat alone, day after day.
Yet some days not everyone would join in at football, sometimes people would go off fishing or cycling, go off doing solitary activities, mostly I would stay with what was left of the group. I had had my time alone.
Sunday, 30 January 2011
Space for the reader to wander through
A pleasure shared gives the pleasure of time to ones soul
In my talk on In Search of Beauty I wanted to let the Phoenix Writers know about the poet Thomas A Clark. I played them Track 9 from the album I send you this Cadmium Red by John Berger and John Christie with music by Gavin Bryars. The audio interlude gave me time. The same sort of time that I had taken earlier in the week, on the shingle at Dungeness, where I saw Derek Jarman's Prospect Cottage with its sidewall poem; a landmark tracked down among the beautiful dereliction. The musical presentation set me thinking. I concluded that what Gavin Bryars had given to the readers/listeners was the time and space to wander through, time to sojourn among the writers/readers words. How then am I now to capture this atmospheric into words alone?
In my talk on In Search of Beauty I wanted to let the Phoenix Writers know about the poet Thomas A Clark. I played them Track 9 from the album I send you this Cadmium Red by John Berger and John Christie with music by Gavin Bryars. The audio interlude gave me time. The same sort of time that I had taken earlier in the week, on the shingle at Dungeness, where I saw Derek Jarman's Prospect Cottage with its sidewall poem; a landmark tracked down among the beautiful dereliction. The musical presentation set me thinking. I concluded that what Gavin Bryars had given to the readers/listeners was the time and space to wander through, time to sojourn among the writers/readers words. How then am I now to capture this atmospheric into words alone?
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