A Portrait Of
them,
It's not the concrete you,
me,
their
More your disparate parts,
my
Their
Your mouth and its assumptions,
My my
Their
Your nose and the way it lies,
My
( the years take their toll on our peripheries),
their
The triangles of your shoulder girdle and our
my
suprasternal notch,
Points of vulnerabilities,
Their
Your
Our internal structures emerging through our skin
which stretches over them to
form a padded suit to hold us all together,
Delicate in its own receptiveness,
Telling the tale of our times
on its transmutable surface.
my
Is the ear lobe visible,
your
Is it pierced and decorated with a stud,
Or ring or some dangling
t
h
i
n
g
Your our
My listening gathered in by the auricle,
Their their
Which can be imagined twitching imperceptibly,
Responding hair-like to the undulations of the waves,
As they sweep by en-route to anywhere and everywhere.
my
Where is your hair ?
Is it tucked behind the pinna,
your
Bound tight behind my head
with something pulling,
To expose our temples,
With their worrisome veins ?
you
Do I want to see it waving,
we
Florid, tumbling downward,
our
Undulating over my naked shoulders ?
your
An eye is guided by the beholder.
There is;
Sensuality in the direction of the gaze,
The way the light,
The line of form,
The suggestion of texture.
Look at the surfaces,
your
Let our looking wander,
my
Until,
The eyes are met at last.
And lock.
For You
There you are,
In pieces,
Scattered to the four winds,
Comfortable between cracks,
Lying hidden amongst treasure
and the buried bones
of the animals you loved.
You're resting awhile,
Leaning against lamposts,
Their sodium glow reflecting off
the peak of your cap,
Not waiting until it turns white,
Because you're off,
You're busy,
Now you're with your chickens,
Head turned towards us,
Unsmiling, your tired, bloodshot,
I don't care I'm wasting myself on my world eyes
dismissing our gaze;
Haven't we better things
to do.,
Like you,
Or more like what you want
to be doing yourself,
Like;
Peeking out from the crowd
that's waiting to hear you
and cheer you though
you don't listen,
because you're sound,
You're Aeolian,
And as the wind blows
through you,
And across the vast tract
of water between us,
The feathers and bottles
and skull and crossbones
and gulls and the albatross
carry you across,
In instalments.
And we love each part of you.
How to press a rose
Everything has a beginning and another and another beginning. The connections between things are endless.
-
I cut two roses to press.
I have four rose bushes.
They all arrived as gifts in baskets,
One basket remains;
I threw the others out, along with other baskets.
Baskets tend to rot if you put plants in them.
I quite like rotting things,
I don't like throwing things out.
I like to preserve things,
Or give them away.
Rarely, I throw things out in despair,
Then mourn their absence.
I don't know why they kept sending the same roses.
I know flowers can be expensive to send from abroad
and this can limit your choice.
The cream roses are beautiful.
I think I did show them how I'd planted them out last time they came across.
I'm not sure they'll understand how much pleasure they bring as they bloom
against the grey/green fence,
Especially in the rain.
There's something about cream,
And roses,
And the way rain deepens the tone of things.
I tried preserving flowers before.
Long ago;
Heating up some silver sand,
Putting it in a cardboard box,
Laying the flowers in the middle.
I can't remember which kind of flowers.
I can't even remember if it worked.
All things dry out eventually anyway,
If you leave an orange it will preserve itself,
Sometimes, if by chance the conditions are correct.
The precise conditions are particular to each thing.
We can try to apply the same method to a different
flower or fruit and it may not work in the same way.
Each time is different.
Repetition is an illusion of sorts,
Even the smallest acts require some kind of improvisation;
Therein lies expertise;
The doing,
The observing,
The repetition, with it's slight adjustments.
A painful memory for me is of being given
my dearest friend's wedding bouquet
and not applying myself sufficiently adroitly
to its preservation.
It felt too precious for me to touch,
So I left it to fade.
I hope she thought,
As I did,
that it was also beautiful
dried and faded,
A paler, more delicate version of,
Its original self.
Like a tinted photo,
Haloed in its nest of white tissue.
She did say she liked it and,
We have been truthful to each other,
She and I,
In our own way,
As good friends are.
But she may have been comforting me,
In the way that we have,
Through our continued closeness.
So it was with care,
I cut two roses recently,
Thinking I would apply myself properly now,
To this task in hand.
I dried their delicate petals carefully,
Using soft paper napkins
bought a long time ago though
never used; they were too cheap
in their flimsiness,
But perfect blotting paper.
Then;
I opened The World of Wonder,
Somewhere at its middle;
Pages 1208 and 1209,
Marvelling at The Double-Decker Railway Train,
On the left,
And Our Dependence on Reflected Light,
On the right.
Inside one of the coaches of The Double-Decker Railway Train,
Two ladies lean slightly in towards the centre of the carriage,
Which seems to extend almost into infinity behind them,
Except for the intervention of two silhouettes,
Somewhere in the distance,
Allowing some proper perspective to enter the illusion.
The ladies are sporting nearly identical cream hats,
Their cream blouses too are very similar,
( black and white photography denies the eye
the distinction of colours in the real world ).
Their faces imply a family connection,
As they sit on either side of the carriage,
Imperfectly mirroring each other.
Beneath and a little behind the lady on the right,
Peeps a younger lady,
Startling from her position
on the lower deck, her head,
Arising, as it were, through the floor.
She gazes into the camera,
One eye gleaming; perhaps in the knowledge
she has been captured
for posterity.
Her male counterpart leans across from
his seat on the opposite side,
His left arm resting on the floor of the
Upper carriage.
It's a strange sight once you see it,
And your eye is drawn all along the aisle,
Until you see more arms and another face
under her white beret, as she too looks,
Down the aisle,
Into the lens.
A moment in history,
Preserved for me,
To perceive from this end of eternity.
Our Dependence On Reflected Light,
A Marvel of Chemistry and Physics,
Over on the opposite page,
Is illustrated with a funny photo' in its centre;
A man in a smart pair of trousers and
sports jacket,
Probably tweed,
His flanneled legs slightly bent,
His trilby cocked,
Maybe it's a Homburg,
( I'm not au fait with hats),
Laughing infront of a mirror with,
A slightly uneven surface.
His legs and torso are shortened
in the mirror.
The reason for the distortion is,
That the rays of light,
Instead of being reflected regularly,
As they are from a level mirror, instead,
Are thrown off at various angles,
And so we get an abnormal image.
Or so the caption beneath says.
I see his alter ego.
I see someone he might have been,
With shorter legs and a head large
in proportion to his body,
Like an adult child.
We could all have been somebody else.
Yet maybe not.
We are as we are.
The World of Wonder also tells us that;
" If it were not for the fact that light is reflected,
that is, when it strikes a surface it is thrown back in the same way
as a ball is bounced off a wall,
we should be unable to see anything except
what is shone by its own light. "
Well I know that there are creatures under the sea,
Who emanate,
Their own light.
I also think some beings above water do too.
( The buddhist told us that we all golden within.
I perceive our core as a cut diamond.
Some people have opened themselves a chink
inorder that light may be refracted from their centre.)
There is already too much in this book,
On these two pages,
For me to contemplate in one day.
And so, I place my two roses,
One just an opened bud,
The other, a full blown rose,
Upon the cheap napkins,
Upon the pieces of baking parchment,
Then upon the page describing our
Dependence on Reflected Light,
Covering them over with a mirror layer;
Cheap paper napkins,
Cut piece of baking parchment,
And close it carefully shut
With a little prayer.
I love these roses,
This process.
These kind of things we do
Are a ritual in loving.
I'm sentimental,
It gets worse with age.
The closed book upon the carpet,
I place a pile of others on it;
My large heavy Textbook of Human Anatomy,
Edited by the even then late J Hamilton,
Relic of long ago study, now without dustcover,
The denim blue linen texture of it's binding
Slightly scuffed and fading along its spine
to a dusty grey.
I heave the heavy Post-Impressionism
From Van Gogh to Gaugin,
Its 1 1/2" depth perfectly equivalent
to Hamilton's anatomy,
And what that comparison has
to tell us about the similarities between
the two subjects
might itself be a large enough subject
for a different long description.
Next comes the shiny black box, . transposed to another place
My container of objects, .
One of a myriad waiting to be understood, .
If you opened up its lid you would find; .
1
.
A square of rag paper, .
Folded in four, .
Red symbol of a heart painted on its centre, .
the four chambers delineated in silver. .
2
A loose-leaved booklet of scraps bearing scribblings .
about the beating heart, .
the centre of life, .
Its four chambers, .
The heart of stone, .
Burden, .
And in the centre-fold; .
an instruction to; .
draw a heart make a heart .
cut it in 2 embalm each half in material .
3
A tri-folded page of words associated with digging things up and inspecting them closely; .
Skeletal Remains .
archaeological discoveries that lead to part understanding .
perhaps a mis-understanding .
Archaeological discoveries . .
Digging .
Dissection .
4 .
a scrap of an idea in the form of a piece of A4 paper cut .
into 3 equal strips and glued at one end .
holding them together; .
Digging .
printed in my anxious print writing on the front strip; . .
Burying .
on the next; .
Uncovering .
on the last. .
5 .
A collection of papers, enfolded in one A4 piece. .
Open at its centre and you will find; .
A piece of Japanese Kodi rag paper folded in 4. .
Each square with a red heart painted in deep crimson. .
One full red heart mirrored by one empty outline, .
The pattern repeated and reversed on the opposite side. .
Behind that, a piece of hand-made rice paper, inset with leaves, .
A4, folded in half, .
On which I painted the heart symbol, .
Divided by the crease, .
Each half individual, .
Like two petals joined at some fulcrum, .
Arching away from each other. .
I'd been thinking about tattoos. .
And symbols. .
And that is probably why the next piece of paper is also .
A heart shape, .
Pink really; .
I let the watercolour wash drip .
into a single drop of deep red, .
Which gathers at the base where, .
The two halves meet. .
It seems I got a bit obsessed with hearts........ .
for a while;
The sentimentality of the symbol, .
Both distressing and compelling. .
The half a piece of A3 underneath,.......... .
Marks my departure into circles. .
I'm quite impressed by my ability to paint them. .
Here, I've painted two pink circles joining, .
At the crease of the paper; .
The pink paint blending perfectly so .
That you can barely see the overlap. .
I couldn't repeat that I don't think, .
Although I might try. .
I like the thinness of the red rim, .
As it delineates their bottoms. .
The page cradling that image .
Is scrawled with my writing .
in pencil which reads: .
I've been imagining the heart as 2 parts for a long time. I know it has four chambers physically, but it always feels divided in 2 to me. It's a sad image isn't it. The heart's our central muscle + it can be robust, but it's subject to such alot of onslaught over a life time and it can feel awfully fragile at times.
Love is a well. We can all draw from it at any time, whether you're alone or not. .
I struck out the word "you're" and wrote "here" over the top which makes no sense. .
Perhaps it is actually "we're", or .
perhaps the no sense is the sense of it. .
I don't like dictating to people. .
Perhaps I should replace it with the word I, .
Inorder that it reads more like a meditation. .
The four folded pieces make a sort of book. .
6
Open underneath lies a scan of a heart that I painted a long time ago before .
I became obsessed with the drawing of their anatomy. .
At this time, .
I was thinking of their structure because, .
I did study anatomy a long time ago, .
Before I studied sculpture. .
This very pale sketch is part of a series, .
Very tentative, .
Half - hearted ( the analogy runs deep and far ) , .
Something I laid out before me in tandem with, .
Making a structure from long twigs, which .
Resembled a cage, which .
I hung in the garden, .
At the top of our large, rambling, .
Lovely garden. .
I have a photograph which relates to it. .
Somehow, one day, the trees' bare branches formed .
a blue heart .
from the space delineated by .
them, touching, tenuously, .
In the optical illusion of the camera lens's gaze, .
As I captured them branching towards each other, .
The ailing Ash and the struggling Sycamore, .
As I stood staring from the bottom to the top, .
Of the steep and lovely garden. .
The view, captured. .
It had resonance and meaning, .
Changing over time, .
From the initial tacky Valentine, .
To the evolving idea of connection, .
As I considered more and more, .
Roots and messages. .
7
I've always had a penchant for the number seven. .
The seventh item is a piece of crumpled white tissue paper. .
I think I can remember where it came from; .
A present. .
I could make the memory up. .
8
Under the tissue are scattered some disparate objects. .
A tin which has the word Fossil written on it. .
It's interesting because the lid has a picture of wood grain .
printed on it. .
It makes no attempt to .
pass for wood, .
Content to be a facsimile of its original. .
Inside upon the velvet lined shell, .
I've placed a fossil, .
A perisphinctes ammonite, .
From the Late Jurassic epoch, .
An extinct Cephalopod, .
Claimed by stone. .
Replace the lid. .
Next to the box, .
Another stone with a hole right through it; .
Hagstone, .
Lying in tandem, .
Close in proximity to; .
Emrys's stone; .
Touchstone. .
Take the Hagstone, .
Look through it, .
Put it in my left hand, .
Measure its weight. .
Light. .
Take the Touchstone, .
Feel its density, .
In my right palm,
Weigh the two against, .
And re - place them tandem. .
I'm at the bottom now. .
The key and the broken shell necklace, which .
Slide around the bottom of the box, beside .
The stones are disparate things, .
The significance of their presence here forgotten. .
I could make it up. .
The base of the box is perfectly lined with .
A brown A4 envelope and, .
I know if I open it, .
The crux of all the thinking .
That went into this box, .
May become apparent. .
For the time being, .
I resist, .
Remantle the box, .
Replace its lid, .
Balance it carefully upon,
My World of Wonder,
Hamilton's Textbook of Human Anatomy,
With its faded spine,
And,
The heavy T- IMPRESSIONISM from
Van Gogh to Gauguin.
( It's ripped jacket lending it a rebellious look ).
Choose another book.
I spy a book on Gaudi,
The Complete Buildings,
Hard backed and strong,
Big; it's the same length,
And a tad wider than
The Hamilton,
Thinner, but the spread of it
will help distribute the weight
Across the roses I think,
As I take it from the shelf,
Marvelling at the azure blue
of the sky,
The holy firmament behind the
Delicate cones of the church;
The inner wall of the East Front,
According to the note.
Sagrada Familia.
Perch it on the box.
It looks good,
The right size,
Beautiful image.
Scan the shelves once more.
Of course!
Neil MacGregor's A
History of the World
In 100 Objects,
Perfect,
A favourite book,
None better to sit atop
and press its weight of
stories and significance,
Down upon the other,
Precious ones.
I grab one more for fun;
Alice's Adventures
in Wonderland and
Through the Looking Glass,
Tatty and torn with use and enjoyment,
Then,
There they sit,
My pile of books pressing
down upon my two roses,
Hopefully helping
to preserve their beauty,
In some form.
I wait.
I wonder how the process will work
This time.
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