I watched you wrangling those sensations turning your heart upside out, inside down And dipped in ink kissed the page I heard your words fall articulate fictions collected spelling out the world filtered through your eyes…
I sat, awe-struck at those flippant phrasings pouring from your pen Truest lies, the lying truths splattered accurate clinging to the pages I believed the textures you carved in open air the spoken honey of your prose a world seen through dark eyes…
All gone and gone time laughing at us It’s all forgotten time mocking us all for nothing like rain at sea Those sparkling lines those beauties bound all forgotten like rain at sea like rain at sea…
[2013]
Thanks for reading. I have no memory of writing this one but I quite like a couple of the lines so thought I’d share.
A hyper-sensitivity of feeling your art connects across the senses The roughness of ancient bark beneath gentle fingertips A kiss from rock-pool water warm against bare ankles
A double exposure a murmuration it’s poetry, the sensuality the sheer never timid beauty lensed so gracefully with such assurance and dexterity
The texture, a waking daydream a cloak of fog, shaft of sunlight A cinematic freeze-frame marked by absence the distance or proximity of pain and recovery
Point and click, your dark-room trick it’s as if you have control over the mountains the birds, the tides or consummate authorship of the nuance you convey
A solo figure in vast expanse an aloneness I recognise searching but serene Lost in the careful creation of an endless mythology loudly reverberates in me
The slow creep of new tissue like quietly vanishing tattoos it’s at your back and haunches as your work builds and soars so far from that place expressive in its woozy warmth
I hear the touch, witness the aroma I exist in awe and quiet wonder A world scatters its knitted beauty a murmuration Little charcoal sketches across watercolour paper
The spine is a map a breadcrumb trail we trace with our fingers but we can’t go back ephemeral and observable only in reflection or a photograph
Dusk tides, an evening deer a crumbling barn, eiderdown snow A swimsuit girl, the Northern Lights a neon sign, a broken rainbow midnight phone booth, stitches in skin untethered and inspirationally free
Your photography is a place I love to visit when I can It’s pure poetry you pen with the light, with your lens A lasting comfort, you translate the message I can’t help but take;
It’s impossible impossible not to love the beauty of this world…
[2021]
Thanks for reading.
An ode to the exceptional work of one of my favourite photographers; Margaret Durow.
Take me to the hidden lake let us wander through the valleys of your heart Let us revel in the splendour of all that rests within Accumulations, it’s what we are everything we’ve felt and seen
Let us swim in the hidden lake in that secret world deep at the core of you Make it rain, bring forth the sun We’ll watch the waters flow across your canvas into the sea, into reality
When the soul flows through and out of you…
How long I’ve wondered where this thing springs from How long I’ve yearned to learn what is the source that feeds your ocean How long I’ve ached to understand where creativity is born
Is it the gifting light of some divinity or weird wiring in the brain A prophet with a prayer to share something deep to celebrate A seer into the fabric of what is with raw sensitivity, purest empathy or a jester writing their own joke book
When the soul flows through and out of you…
The unique way you see things how you intuit and interpret painting the ephemeral The haunting way your voice speaks of the rich duality as it carries the tune of living
Don’t despair, the lake is always there some days, the level low some days, only a trickle flow Some days, the dam spills over some days, the trek into the mountains takes a little longer
We’ll always return with something new there’s nothing more beautiful there’s nothing more true
Some dusks, they take too much and of men, I am duty-bound to be loyal, to provide… There should be a shelter I can create with my hands so when the clouds revert to water then she will have some warmth
But I am a coward, sometimes I am a snake, sometimes a jackal and a vulture I dream to take it back undo my failed moments so my ‘always’ could be true
Men look at me and smile some simply see I am like them drawn to flames and to destruction other men see me as a joke not as a man should be armed to art and to creation she seems to like my contradictions
But I am uninspired, sometimes I am a beast, sometimes an animal and a killer I long to take it back undo those bleak mistakes so my ‘always’ could be true
I have been a knife and I have slit before so my ‘always’ will never be true…
Freedom is… A blank page, ruled with margins for scribbled after-thoughts Ink in the fountain pen and some new idea to spill A canvas, with pallet oiled and brushes ready A quiet room, an acoustic guitar in tune A sunrise, derelict buildings, wide lens and film ready in the camera A garden, soil turned and green fingers Wet sand, a new love and a sharp stick A science textbook, a biro and a teenage smirk
Freedom is… Truths to tell, a close friend with a sympathetic ear White folded card, marker pens, glue, an impending birthday A concrete wall, spray can in hand, something to say A ream of material, needle, thread and buttons An audience, a microphone, a knowing smile A piano, no music written but itchy fingers A blog post and a theme as free as freedom itself Freedom is your life, and whatever story you choose to write with it
The Lighthouse 