Saturday, 3 February 2018



Paternoster Part 2

What is my world of pain? Just thinking about it, riding round and round the Paternoster.
It is the pain of remembrance.

The feelings, the thoughts, the understanding
The knowing what I have felt has a word, phrase.
Yet not quite having the language to express it.

Like Helen Keller with her hand in the water
Letters, urgently, in rapid succession written on the other hand.
W-A-T-E-R.
And through the fog bank of realization comes a reflection of a conception of what it is.

Having the experience of that event in my mind,
to express the inner narrative,
speaking the words out loud,
I am not there yet.

I have a taxonomy of all the words associated with that emotion
Listed in my innerness,
Someday soon I will speak the spoken the words out loud,
Bring innerness to birth into the outside world.

This is the start.
Having the letters strung into words and phrases which make up the once secret,
Now de-coded language,
Of re-remembering
This time last year.

Radiotherapy treatment.
Hoping, wishing to ring that shiny brass bell on the wall,
To signal the completion of my exposure to my own personal Chernobyl.

Images of my favourite fantasy haunts
Are the pages dedicated to photographs of Chernobyl now.

The abandoned fun fair,
The rotted library with disintegrated books and fallen in ceiling tiles,
The homes, glassless, verdant forests growing through floor and roof
And everywhere super abundance of nature,
And an underlying disturbing weirdness.

Thinking about the interrupted patterns
Of life
and how to interrupt them and push the ornament,
in a crumbly version I pulled off the gessoed muslin and then painted on the cracked and flaked bit,
I kind of went with my inner
Chernobyl – my spiritual home, my kin’s home, my affinity place.

Sister to mutant squirrels, cousins to altered deer.
With my cut and sewed breast and arm. Irradiated.

The world of pain is in my own mind
Trying to keep it on an even keel,
Being reminded at every turn in that I have been absent from life.

That I buried myself in an underground Anderson shelter.
In thick silence of days spent on my own,
Deep in myself, crying out in wonder.
Wrapping layers and amounts of thick duvets and patchwork quilts around myself,
Bound with string,
Insulated from blood, tumours, injections and knives.
Radioactive infusions, stitches and needles,
Waking up on a trolley throwing up.

This is my world of pain, that I shy away from and wad myself up against.
I guess going up in a lift is moving from the pain
and moving on up
Moving on out
Moving away from,
Moving through.

One year distance,
Separating the old me from the new.
I am alive,
I am awake,
I shed my duvets and walk naked into the fresh world

As the elevator doors open and I step out into my new life.

image: Tree in hotelroom in Prypjat, Chernobyl, Ukraine; https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/388013324137577619/



Dream Poem 105: The Paternoster

In an elevator, there are two women.
Each in their world of pain.
Each unable to help the other.


image: http://charmbtrippin.com/goats-at-the-prague-lucerna-rooftop/

Thursday, 1 February 2018




Diary Poem 2
Spinning in Silence

A slice of silent contemplation
the sky today
is ice-cream blue

rose candied pink
with peach syrup clouds

architecture is crisp in silhouette,
sharp cold cut-outs,
a paper stage in foam board and ink
Stage of my play.

Players coming in from
stage left
and stage right.

And I’m lost up in the gods looking down
and wondering when my cue might be.

Momentary blip as I stand between
Two posts.

In the mouth of the goal
But not back of the net.

In a void of sound and input
In a singular moment of stasis.

Frozen in time.
Briar Rose before everyone else wakes up
A ghost who no one sees.

Bustling past late looks
Blond plait bobs by
Curious looks.

Locking doors
Unlocking doors.

A heated impassioned argument on the mobile
In the corridor

And all the while the reflection of myself looks on in white
Crumpled linen.
Reflected in the surface of a video

Repetitious spinning

Action black blue

A square of white chalk and a man in a hoop, a woman with a broom.

Spinning and mark-making
Handwritten chalk trails, mandala circles of swept space dust

Dipping his foot through the chalk again and again
patterning the surface of the floor
Painterly gestures
Whole body drawing
In chalk on black.

All the while I stand blank
In a cloud

Waiting to begin.

Video: Cyr wheel performance Leeds Arts University Nov2017, Collaborated project with Liliana Robins, Fine Artist and circus performer Micky Bimble.
Mel Dewey, artist photographer.

Tuesday, 2 January 2018



The Change Part 10: Objectness, Second Iteration


She needed certainty.
A repeated path well worn.
Security, reiteration, peace, comfort.
All this she found in her singular pattern.

Nineteenth century American quilt block pattern
In nine patch formation.

Linked to an object
A time, a state of being
A Southern-Bible-Belt state, cardinal red.

Connected to objectness
Theoretical object
Dream object (the chair)

The dream-state-trance she hypnotised herself into
Astral travel across 5000 miles,
every night to be with the one she loved.

The pattern has many names
The construct is half square triangles set in opposition.

Imagine a chess board kitchen floor
In a Medieval villa in Perugia or Assisi
Frescos on the wall
Warm dry
Fragrant with olive, mint, rosemary, dog.

Imagine this chess board
Dark and light tiles in opposition to each other, perfect balance.

Then imagine each tile sliced diagonally left to right, right to left
And the pieces moved into a mathematical puzzle
Creating a new configuration
Of tints and tones.

Seen a certain way the pattern is lozenges.
Viewed another way the ornament is cotton-reels and bow-ties.
Pure logical abstraction.

Yet chaos.

A thrown rune, fallen to the earth
Fontana’s slashed canvas
A window through which is seen a doorway,
Through which is viewed a section of another window,
Through which is glimpsed a Vermeer night sky
Bluest of azurite, lapis blue
Post-sunset.

And now she starts to comprehend
the complexity of the objectness of the object she has created.

The layers of colour,
meaning,
intent
she has, trance like applied to this flat object.

Creating deep objectness.

In this newly crafted thought-work entity.
Objectness
and the thoughthingability
of the workpiecentity.
becomes evident
in the heart of the maker
and the skin of the object.




Monday, 1 January 2018



The Change Part 9: Objectness

Twined and intertwined
The objectness in her life has refrained.
Like a song, she may come back to it later in the music.

Making, crafting, shaping.
Her time of objects is on pause, halted.

In her dream a very specific chair blocks my thoughts
To other things
Yet wood is not my medium, my raw material.

Structure, design, presence, desirability
The tools and processes of wood work
Although pleasing in themselves as object in their own right,
Devoid of purpose
Are not it.
Do not give her the joy she seeks.

Not sure what does.

She found refuge in the flat.
Incomprehensible.

Through her weeks, months, half a year of her
Recuperation
It was not objects
She turned to for diversion
But painting.

She filled her sketchbook day after day with pattern.
And narrowed it down.
And narrowed it down.
To a single repeated ornament.

In the simplest of motifs.
A square,
with two lines running from corner to corner
and intersecting in the centre.

In fugue.
Worked in varying scale.
Diminuendo, crescendo, ritardando. 

In blue and gold.
One pattern
One colour-way.

Variety in the maker’s hand.
The flat
Became the object
Not painted on canvas or paper but on a slab of wood.

A new objectness.
Differently pleasing.
Equally satisfying to create.





Tuesday, 26 December 2017



Dream Poem 102: The Maze, The Wall, The Question or Belshazzar’s Answer.

Daniel 5:5
“In the same hour the fingers of a man’s hand appeared and wrote on the plaster of King Belshazzar’s wall. 

The Genius Professor and I,
along with other research scientists, computers, equipment and robots
are working as a team
bang in the middle of a maze.

Looking for the answers.

One of the robots, unexpectedly is
Swallowed up by the wall,
For not fulfilling his role adequately.

I see what is happening and catch hold of his eye as he disappears.
I pull and pull, hanging on to the eye.
Yards of metal tape come out
But I kept hold of it.

I want answers.

The wall is a female entity and speaks to me saying
“you are not playing fair”
But I say
“Any means are ok in order to get the answer”
And she clenched her grip on the robot tighter
But I would not relinquish my grasp and pulled harder
And finally the robot came up to the surface of the wall.

And I asked my question.
And he answered me.
And I let go.

And let him be devoured by the wall once again.

The Professor’s wife was pregnant, I knew that.
We sat on the metal seating in Pudsey bus station,
Behind us a row of shops with the Bentleys the Butchers on it.

I was explaining about the shops to a table full of colleagues
But they couldn’t see it.
And I said they had to look over the wall and through the density of the trees and it was there.

We were waiting for people going into the maze
And coming out again with the answer.


I suppose we could piece it all together to create a larger answer.



(images. Top - Pudsey Bus Station: wymetro.com. built 2010, bottom image, National Gallery, Belshazzar's Feast, Rembrandt, 1636-38. )

Tuesday, 12 December 2017



Dream Poem 100: Through the X of Pinking Shears

Scissors in the kitchen.
Long arms
Spider fingers
Table full of possibility
Popping and bursting with ideas and plans.

In my hand a pair of pinking shears
Their serrated edges
Waiting to decorate
An edge
With a row of miniature mountains
Or a factory roof.

The scissors X
Is a gateway
Crawl through
only slightly hazardous
Just avoid the sharp blades like Indiana Jones.

But once through
A whole world of pink rivers
Purple sunsets, golden mountains, green lakes and blue grass.

The sound of cicadas
Not too loud
My hammock and a sweet iced tea in my hand.

It is a high hammock
So my feet don’t touch the ground
There is a breeze
Sweet with magnolia blossom and grass

My eyes close in the warmth of evening.