I read of self, of identity
Of exploration and passage
But David Noon - it is your phrase:
The sanctity offered by the countryside
That lifts my spirits
I want to walk along your pier head
Dive into your water
Let your cold mountain touch my skin
Maybe then
To write of the experience
To let go of the endless search
Camouflaged in regular words
I take in the textual art of one Kayleigh Jackson
I re-tell her tee-shirt slogan
First to my partner and then salaciously - to a crowd
We laugh, it is funny, wicked, lasting
About council estates and girls who might
And boys that say for certain, though not really knowing - right
It's a tough life, an ordeal with little choice or options
Laughter may be the only way of escape
I think at least she has the future of hindsight, go for it - loud
Catherine uses the word myriad; of course she teaches art, and the poetry police have not yet caught up with her. She talks of tentative forays, and a sophisticated understanding; a journey of deep emotion
With a quotation from Pascal her introductory piece is broken in half
But still; all the right words in all the right places
How good to read of such a generous sensitive soul
Upstairs, down stairs
Along corridors, in and out of self partitioned rooms
Some girls have the decorators in
Some boys prefer the game of shadows
I walk in
Ask the teacher if it's ok to take photographs
I'm just another student
Someone else trying to settle on their future
I want you to see more, to read more into this
The next line is blank
For your own thought
Ben did a similar thing with a canvas
A street scene painted entirely in black
The viewer having to move about to catch new light
To see across and over, into and deeper than the surface
I wonder
One day would he lay down a tray of pastels?
Allowing the audience to bring their own rub of colour
And for Emma
Is the process itself self sufficient
To take apart, to put back together, to tear and then to stitch
As if to thump
And then to console
With a wipe of melted butter
Maybe it is:
To swim underwater for as long as you can
Or as long as you dare
To walk to the extent of your feet's endurance
Or sit in a chair
Is there a search for renewal - but no place for the three act story
Just there and back again, each day a little older
With or without reparation
With or without the fame or glory
A sense of refined chaos, as if your fathers jam jar, full of screws and nails and picture hooks had been scattered on the floor, over an ordnance survey map of Lincolnshire and beyond
There was a plan, and a classy catalogue
Even so, as an exercise in disorientation
It was fabulously successful
Guys in high-leg turned over leather boots
A sop to the roundheads
Or the cavaliers
Street scenes layered with a palette knife
To lift the slippery sloppy pavement
From the oily doily canvas
Unreeled cassette tape is nailed to the wall
A loop-less but continuous story
With the obligatory I don't give a fuck
I strode up the Greestone steps
In the pouring rain
At the top I caught my breath
In the Cathedral Garden
I thought of the depth
And was perplexed
As before
On another ceremonious occasion
Opening drawers
Watching butterflies take to the sky
