I am an interdisciplinary artist, poet, educator and folk musician. This page is for my poetry. There are some strong themes, some funny stuff, some sad motifs. Just letting you know dear reader.
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Dream Poem 106; Pull a Corner
I never wanted to enter conversations
in shop doorways.
Just pull a corner out and I can do the rest myself
Angel Andrea - charcoal drawing on cartridge, A1, Frances-Ann Norton It is wonderful to be working with instagram@alicemaryjelaska once again in the Pop-up-space Hackney, Mare St, London. for an exhibition of visual art and poetry in February 2024. The theme was Tea and Friendship. Angel Tea The pictures on my phone divide into days, events, trips, workshops. Important, in-focus ones are instagrammed, facebooked and tweeted. What about the in-betweeny photos? The ones that are unchosen, abstract, blurred, accidental handbag shots. These need further study, they are more than they first appear, less than rejects. They represent moments of autoethnographic honesty, unheard dialogue, fear, tears, tech-impatience or pure love. So interesting and to be banked for another day, a future art-investigation-project. When I seek to unravel and analyse these images, make meaning out of them… I see the visitation of the Angel of Communities, in the corners and on the edges ...
Niagara in the 90’s; After James Richards, Raking Light 2014, Digital Video with stereo sound. Safely seated in a small darkened space In the 1990’s rooms of the Tate Here to see Inventory’s DaDa reflection on social housing. London trains and busses have exhausted me. Onscreen a series of obscure and abstract images Until Niagara appears. And now two films are running, the one on screen and the one in my memory. Niagara Falls in December, the nineties have just begun like a new love affair. Niagara Falls in deep love Of crashing foam. A woman in a yellow trench coat that her mother bought from a shop that doesn’t exist anymore, Headscarf and red lipstick. She waits at the top for her photo to be taken. Pose like Marilyn. But there are no colours Everything is blank faced, locked up Frozen solid, danger zone. The petrified falls and thickly Iced, icey, walk-ways are A hazard Impassable. Like this fake marriage...
Saturday Night Tell me true – you are Grand at Grandways Grandmas shop with mini trolleys of single portion tins of beans and tuna. Shoplifting in the cheapest supermarket in Leeds Store detectives have hands on you For a bag of cheese and onion Seabrook crisps “It’s a code thirteen” over the tanoy A small pool forming under the feet Of the elderly gentleman Who is crying and confused. The checkout girls in overalls In all the wrong sizes. Mr Yellow, wishing He’d popped to William Hills at break time A roll of fivers from the cash wage Packet already half spent Small square brown envelope Ripped and burning a hole in his back pocket. The aisles of the cheapest of everything Bags and bags and palates of white sugar White sliced loaf, gallons of squash in neon orange. No bar codes or electronic anything Number punching all day Type it in correctly Or I’ll have to change the price on the next item “price please Val” Waving...
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