Friday, 23 September 2016

Day One of the Plymouth Arts Weekender: The Barbican

I know I usually use this blog for posting my old and new poetry, however, this piece (and the two that will follow) does not quite fit the parameters of my other blogs, thus I give you Day One of the Plymouth Arts Weekender: The Barbican.

Today I learnt that I was missing out big time. Last year, the Plymouth Arts Weekender meant virtually nothing to me; however, this time, even just from today, I found out I had deprived myself of so much local artistic talent. 
The 100 Most Watched
I started my expedition at the Plymouth Arts Centre to take in Danish artist Katya Sander’s exhibition ‘Publicness’. This consisted of ten pieces created from the material of the streets – graffiti, finance, the ‘public subconscious’ – which brought the city into the gallery. The two pieces on the ground floor were stark and simplistic, ‘The 100 Most Watched’ chaotically scrawled across one wall. The second floor was more of a burst of colour, as seen in the
Some Statements in Relation to
a Bank
complicated ‘Some Statements in Relation to a Bank’ which conveyed an ignorance and a lack of trust for the humble banker. Two installations were audio videos and, as art in this form goes, a little confusing, but ‘Exterior City’ made me feel as if Sander were trying to say ‘we are all actors within the manuscript of our city’.
Sue Willis

My next stop was Only Originals on White Lane where the works of Sue and daughter Christie Willis were being displayed and sold. I spoke with the artists, though at the time did not know it. The acrylic floral paintings of Sue Willis struck me as possessing a pastel-shaded vibrance which almost seemed to glow, while her serene country and maritime scenes captured the varying levels of sunlight perfectly. Daughter Christie’s work focused primarily on animals, lacking slightly in depth or character, but the brushwork remained soft and practised. It was the perfect scenery for a typical country poem. Check out their shop on White Lane, Barbican.
Christie Willis
Up next was the Barbican New Street Artists at Studio Two, New Street. This collection of art belonged to local artists Glyn White, Dave Crocker, Keith Simmons, and Caroline Mercer. Unfortunately, I missed the work of the latter, but what I saw did not disappoint. Keith Simmons displayed a series of maritime pieces in acrylic, a piece entitled ‘Spirits of the Sea’ capturing water in motion with surprising detail. Dave Crocker favoured an almost photographic approach, painting local buildings and people with a degree of soul and personality, evident in ‘The Girl with the Silver Tongue Stud’. However, it was the moody maritime and moorland scenes of Glyn White’s ‘Blanc on Blanc’ which stole my attention. I was fortunate enough to meet the man himself and give my feedback on his
Diogenes at Night in
the Studio Window
work, stunning him, I think, with my view that the water in his paintings looked almost like stone, while the stone looked rather like water. Check out his Facebook to see what you think. 
My fourth stop was at the New Street Gallery for prominent South West artist Robert Lenkiewicz’s ‘Diogenes Show’, a series of projects based on his friendship with and the life – and death – of vagrant Edwin Mackenzie, or Diogenes after the cynical Greek philosopher. The series depicts Mackenzie as the embodiment of chaos and death through paintings, sketches, photography, and 3D masks in plaster and thermoplastic. I saw these as ways to immortalise and spotlight this otherwise invisible man and all that he stood for. Two particular pieces caught my eye, the first, an immense painting of Mackenzie entitled ‘Diogenes at Night in the Studio Window’. His blue eyes were so alive, the light glinting on his unkempt hair to great effect. The second was two photographs of a dead Mackenzie entitled ‘The Putrefaction of Diogenes’. It shocked and fascinated me, but also reminded me of the fate of any other vagrant.
Tim Pearse
My final stop was at the Comma Five Art Space on Southside Street to see the local talent in Comma Five fullstop. They were setting up when I arrived, so I was unable to get the full experience but, for the second time, was able to speak with the artists present. The first to catch my eye was a series of simple yet thought-provoking urban photographs by freelance photographer Alexander Kanchev. They made me want to know what lay beyond the pictures’ borders. The second was Tim Pearse’s more disturbing and introspective photography which, after a short chat, I learnt contained pieces of his own inner self, the monochrome and distortion effects only enhancing this and endearing the collection to me. Check out his Facebook page and see how it makes you feel. The third set I viewed
James Wells
was a series of ghostly and industrial black and white photographs by James Wells. One image appeared to be have been laid over another as if showing the past and present in one shot; again, something I could appreciate. The fourth installation was from Sarah Fitzpatrick of Fitzy Pawtraits, a neat set of colourful cartoon scenes of Plymouth. Not generally my cup of tea, but the clean style and inclusion of a colourful canine made the set noteworthy. 
Sarah Fitzpatrick
A brief explanation that I was writing for the Plymouth University magazine even got me a little postcard for free. The final instalment came from Josh Greet and was a lenticular poster board which I was unable to figure out. That’s not to say I had no concept of what it could mean – there was something in there about the technological age as it bore the dreaded Internet Explorer logo – but again, it wasn’t quite the kind of art I found myself drawn to. 

And with that, day one of the Plymouth Arts Weekender draws to a close.





Thursday, 22 September 2016

A Clockwork Orange - My A-Level Creative Pieces

By request of a friend, I have my series of Clockwork Orange poetry which I wrote back in 2010 (again). The institution trying to help our dear friend Alex, but these methods aren't what they seem.
Needle
Another needle in
Just like yesterday;
Why do I get the feeling,
The feeling that nothing’s changed -
Except me?
The needle goes in,
It smells the same:
Bitter, sick and sterile;
Slammed right in,
It feels the same:
Painful, cold and vile.
Even the nurse,
She’s the same person
Who punctures and injects me,
But maybe the needle has changed…
I could do with some new friends,
Ones who don’t do pain,
But though the needle changes
The pain stays the same.
Then there’s me.
I see the wasted face
In an imperfect mirror;
Not much left to prove I’m alive,
Except the sting
Of my stinking metal friend and his wife.
Touching the spot he loves,
My hand trembles,
The door opens,
And he’s grinning at me again.

Here, our dear friend Alex has been saved from his suicidal leap, finding himself confused in his hospital bed.

I Shouldn’t Be Here
Did someone say my name?
I’m sure they did, but where from
And for how long,
I cannot comprehend.
I’m not even sure I know my name,
Or if I’ve been acquainted with pain;
There should be something
Telling me I’m broken, and bleeding,
Beyond hope.
But no, here in Bedlam
I realise the doctors are saving me,
Restoring me to a life I remember
Trying to get rid of,
And now there’s a gaping numbness in its place,
No pain, no suffering at all.
Did someone say my name?
I’m sure they did,
Just wish I could see them.
Slowly the eyes ease open
As the gateway to Hell slams in the wind;
The wind blows the smell of death to me,
And Death takes my hand.
“You’re going to be fine, son.”
If I had a hand free I’d let you know
You lie; I’m not dead,
But I bet you wish I was.

These are two of a set of 6 but I don't have too much faith in the worth of the rest so I may have to let them lie for awhile.

Wednesday, 21 September 2016

"What the Deuce?"

Inspired by the scene in Mr Rochester's bedroom from Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre.

Calm and content,
Curled up in my cotton tomb,
Transported back to the womb
Where I dreamt endlessly.
There I smelt my life
Imminent, timid,
But virgin and vivid.
Here it is different
And deadly.
My life reeks of decay
As it burns away;
I taste the ash of my lungs,
Anaesthetised, desensitized,
Stupefied and condemned.
Scorched by conflagration,
Numbed by smoke,
But I do not choke
Just sleep
And keep on dreaming.
My cotton tomb ablaze,
A-kindle and consuming,
Collapses while still fuming,
Swallows me as I slumber
Or so I thought.
My maid she came a-wandering,
A-wondering,
And saw me here a-slumbering
In my cotton tomb of fire.
I felt her drown my death,
Extinguish Hell,
Restore my breath,
And I awoke in a fit of passion,
‘Deuce take me, what has happened?’
The timid creature,
Like newborn life,
Stood trembling, as well as I,
But told the tale
From start to end.
I implored of her
To not say a word;
The events of which have occurred
Are our secret –
Instead I enclosed her in my arms
As rapture seized me in its jaws,
Dragged me back from Death’s door
And threw me at her feet.
I praised her long
My preserver, my protection,
Then let her shivering form go

In the wake of my affection.

Hunger Games

Always fun to observe the seagulls on a school playing field (written 5 years ago and edited twice since)

The seagulls play the field,
moving as one like two-legged sheep
absently pecking the stud-holed turf.
More join the game
winging in circles towards the ground
carried by the wind’s breath
beneath their standard-issue uniforms.
They chase, they dive, they squabble and rush,
The ref is called in –
That was a definite foul.
Then with an unspoken order
the match is disbanded,
each player floating away like paper
in effortless flight through the open.
Now the field lies desolate,
Glimpses of the aerial athletes
appear then disappear overhead.
In the other field the real players
push goals and chase balls
like eager dogs.
One day I think their toy,
kicked skyward,

might not come back down again.

You and Mr Spider

I don't appreciate flies inside the house that much, so it was only a matter of time before such a poem came into existence. I wrote this one 6 years ago and my hatred is still strong.

See it one second,
Gone the next
Like a thought you never quite had;
The fly droning slowly
About the room
Inspires murderous intentions.
‘Next time I see it,
It won’t be so lucky –
First thing to hand
Will be the last thing it sees,
And I don’t care if I make a mess!’
The insistent buzz
That drives you insane
As it circles above your head;
The sudden silence
When it lands on something,
‘I know it’s here,
Somewhere...’
A wild flailing of the arms
As the dog’s sneeze
Awakens the fly.
You grab the Sunday paper,
Your only weapon against this invisible invader
And –
Sorry, I’m laughing so much
Watching you lose the war,
I’m hiding my tears of mirth.
An hour later, when you sit defeated,
Eating dinner in front of the telly,
I’m up on your ceiling

Eating your silk-wrapped enemy.

Sunday, 18 September 2016

Sacrament of Sound

I wrote this one for musicians in general because my world would be rather less colourful without them, but the final four lines were added a few days after the death of David Bowie on January 11, 2016, so this one is for him.

They are another species to us:
Gods, virtuosos of expression,
Beautiful people
Who exist in another universe
Briefly touching ours,
Like a hand trailing the water’s surface.
They vibrate on a different frequency
We know only as music;
Without realising entirely what they do,
We become possessed by the sound
Of their souls
And pay for it distilled in plastic.
A frozen moment for the fans
Ripped out of a magazine
Puts their immortal eyes on us,
Gives flesh to the voice,
Humanity to the magic.
They scream and croon their hearts out
For the strangers that they love,
Play snare and string and key
To connect their separate worlds,
And kneel stage side as if in prayer
To a god of their own
In a sacrament of sound.
Some live on until their status
Leaves them silver-haired;
Some are called back too soon,

But all leave their souls scattered on repeat.

Tuesday, 13 September 2016

Submarine Sentinal

During the Writing the Waves Flash Poetry Competition at the Plymouth Athenaeum, we were given a photo of an underwater statue at the Lanzarote Underwater Museum. This is what I produced to the 30-minute, 14 line regulations:


I stand where the cerulean light 
filters down through the shallows,
my likeness to any who once lived
worn smooth by the silt-filled currents
until I have no face, no eyes,
a blind watchman of a vast nothingness.
Here my feet have rooted for millennia,
a natural stone pillar grown from the ocean floor,
a god to all that crawls, swims, slithers,
and a witness to all that died.
Now I sense I stand where the pale light falls,
where their fragile skeletons have come to rest
so now it is no longer sand between my toes
but the remnants of life, dead things, from an alien heaven.

I may make some changes to this at a later date, or write a new piece based on the same picture