Stories from ‘The Dreaming Sites’

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

Why I Write

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.  

Gorgeous II

Rustic, these sculptures
turn their heads to the sky
be it grey or bright blue
with clouds floating by

In our garden their splendour
brings pleasure each day
Each unique and quite gorgeous
in their own special way

Autumn

    Autumn

 

So many things

are vulnerable to cold—

the cucumber’s crisp

and my sweet basil’s toes,

Open House

We had an open house this year
Adur Arts in June
Three weekends with Sally’s glass
displayed in the front room

The Desert Quartet

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

Butterflies

“You could sell those”

a familiar phrase

then watch my passion

turn to drudgery

Oasis of Lovely

Amongst the towering walls of glass
the concrete and the steel
a sculpture hanging in the trees
is calming and genteel

When we write

2 of 5 in the Jemverse ‘Poets’ series

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

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

There is no word for art in their language

It is infused in the fabric of their culture

Adorning their bodies and homes

With sacred symbols

On baskets, clothing, totems, rocks

The Keeper

I am the keeper of lost things,
those intangible imprints of wasted life,
destined to become the destroyer of goodness
and maker of sadness.

#41 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm 

Poetry =

Treading Water

~ Haiku

~ Haiku
Poppy fields abloom

Scarlet fuses the color wheel

Art still lives

art still lives
sometimes in frames
sometimes in streets
sometimes in the waters of our veins

#11 POETRY =

By Charles Robert Lindholm

 

Poetry =

Me

Welcome To The Encore

In Constable’s footsteps

Went to Brighton to see the original
on short loan from the Tate
It’s quite a lot bigger than the one on my wall
and to see it there was great

A Constable retrospective
representing four years’ toils
When he lived right here in Brighton
with some drawings and some oils

Nobody!

On The Edge

 

Text & Adaption : Helen Midgley

Original Photo : https://morguefile.com/creative/cohdra

Poet’s Love Song

I see you

Yes, you poet

You who lives

Behind the misty veil

Dwelling in the border

Between this world

And a hundred other

Shadow worlds

Painting

blue

blue is the color

of my sadness

not robin’s egg blue

too bright

too cheery

not navy blue

too flat

too traditional

Art for my sake

Brush in hand
I decide on the first stroke
Relieved to have got this far
Having chosen what to paint

The One You Feed…

A Cherokee Fable

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, “My son, the battle is between 2 “wolves” inside us all.

One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

You Never Know

The thing about life is,
that you never know..

You never know who you hurt with the words you spoke,
or whose heart you accidentally broke.

You never know who you damaged every bit of their soul,
or whose shine you mercilessly stole.

Pleasure

We brought a David Hockney print
and hung it on the wall
An early Christmas present
to be admired by one and all
It’s from a London retrospective
at the Royal Academy
to which just under four years past
we went, my wife and me

If