Down on the docks this evening
as the day turned into night
we had the special privilege
of a truly lovely sight
Part of the Brighton Festival
an experience to share
called 'Points of Departure'
to entertain us there
Emily Kame Kngwarreye
loved colour with a passion
with acrylic paint to canvas
like it was going out of fashion
and in eight years to an end of life
she captured there ‘the dreaming’
three thousand plus enlightenments
and each with hidden meaning
A writer of modest talent can only hope one day to put together a word or two—on a rare week, a phrase—that’s worth keeping. This is not the conceit of petty perfectionism. This is just the reality of having a mediocre vision that cannot totally grasp what floats in and out of view. It’s the curse of having an mind’s eye that comes close enough to see the possibilities dimly, but does not quite have that extra something that would make it all clear. The curse of the ‘if-only’. The torture of the dreamer who is granted a taste of a truth in the night but loses it upon wakening. The humility of Moses on the border of the promised land who may not cross over, no matter the sacrifice. And virtue is no guarantee. The world often rewards those of questionable credentials.
It’s a frustration that has to be managed—The gap between what might be glimpsed, a brief impression of something sublime and the skill that, were it a painting, only manages stick figure drawings.
So the experience is one of enduring the sense of of constant failure —even accepting it as the price— to press the cheek up against the foggy glass that keeps one just beyond the truth…. Throwing the lariat a thousand times at a stallion that prances just out of reach, hoping that one more throw will tame the beast and bring him nearer, to feel the heat and the true wild life of him. Yet still, as seems to be the way of the Plan, It is a way to learn humility, and patience and forgiveness. Nothing need be wasted, and the great wheel grinds always, and grinds exceedingly small.
That’s the job. Putting up with failure long enough to feel the hot breath of something beautiful.It is insanity. But oh, so seductive.
He’s just one of four
by Elizabeth Frink
looking down on me now
as I sip a hot drink
‘The Desert Quartet’
adorn the arcade
there from the eighties
when they were made
In the small hours I sat
with my pen and I wrote
for the words were just flowing
and worthy of note
And they weren’t telling stories
at least, not ones of fiction
yet their eloquence still
came alive with their diction
I wanted to be Steve Jobs
I wanted to be Joni Mitchell
I wanted to be Leonard Cohen
I wanted to be Carl Sagan,
Bobby Kennedy.
I wanted to be that person,
the one they’ll say years from now,
“yeah, whatever happened to him?”
The way people do, about certain
Rare, shining talents, like Joni, or Steve,
Or Carl. Mystery
that can’t be explained.
There is no word for art in their language
Poet's Corner 