O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; Before this strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife— Fly hence, our contact fear! Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! "The Scholar Gipsy" (1853) is a poem by Matthew Arnold
Below are some of my own poems compiled from painter's notes, observations and the use of my own imagination.
FRIEDRICHSTRASSE Rolling cloud on a darkened window. Glowing phone screen by a flickering candle. Small glass vase, fallen petal. She is a child of this place. Like the bullet peppered wall she carries the memory and trauma of the past. She is a dark sapphire, wise and clairvoyant, a poet and painter in touch with her land. I just hope one day she will see this in her reflection.
IN THE FIELD. The winter moon sits as crisp as a twist from the tip of a pristine pastel. At a distance a small wood stands alone, a hazy net of burnt umber against a thin ash gray cloud. The sun's eye the seamless seer swoons upon this noble and intricate sundial. In it's depths under a wet swaying canopy lies a leafy tapestry of lush sprung earth. Outside a field ploughed into furrowed flaps of pale sienna.
MORNING BLUES. Juggernauts in the darkness thunder past Brown field sites and green belts on black belts of constant lava flow. An eyelash prison carving headlights into lazer lights.
OXFORD. The breaking light of a cool pewter morning enlivens thick lime stone walls. In this shining realm a symbol a white glowing feather creeps through a curtain into an old room. Here once sat an easy chair on a rug by a fireplace where wheat and grasses once drifted in on the breeze. Outside this room barley- recognisable a Phoenix carved in stone. Silence was once golden in this City of screeching tires, flooded plains and telegraph wires.
DREAM TIME. I was right there when I was being reborn. The chambers of my heart opened like the folds of a rose. I had fallen into slumber and had awoken to the motion of waves lapping onto a moon-lit shore. I ran back to my clan through the trees as fast as lightening to tell my brothers of my discovery that I was still alive but all that remained.The silhouette of there memory and a fire that crackled up into the night. This is dream time, darkness is pure and the universe, home.
LADY BERLIN. Freshly bolted steel well-oiled chains. Shattered glass on a new stain. Pasted printed paper on a lamp post cast. Track's, wasteland Evening Primrose. The pale reedy light of lady Berlin. Forest within a City or City within a forest.
MOTH. Blitz, blitz. Old twine old twine in my mind. New moth guiding a stitch through time. Earth, doorway, rain.
Old Path. Fluttering green leaves. Silver grey linings. Ticking room. Red brick on seasoned mortar. Victorian shade. Shed spider skin next to an old dry match box. Silence gaurds the night and a tassled lamp is glowing. Bats flit above and with oceans of instinct dissolve into twilight.