Wednesday, 14 November 2012

The Eyes Have It


Creative Conundrums
~ Eye To Eye ~

They say you can tell a lot from the eyes. Well, I don't know if it's the case here, but I can see a few wrinkles setting in, thanks also to the fact I was smiling for this photo.

I wonder if you could guess my age from the photo above. 47. So there you go. And quite happy with it. Better than never making it to that number like so many artistic and poetic types from the past.

My paintings haven't progressed from yesterday yet, but another couple of poems have fallen out of my brain since the last time I wrote. Oh, three actually. At this rate I could publish a collect of weak verse in about... a week!


Now There's A Job

Christmas rubber stamps another year
The leaves have all been roused and rounded up
With those funky new-fangled leaf blowers
Now there's a job

The relatives will come, they always do
Like ants to sugar, we will live it up
Whatever 'it' is, then we'll tidy up
Now there's a job

In time to see the old year truly out
Like a drunken uncle on his ear
The resolutions rain like fireworks
Now there's a job

The spring will out and summer come again
The leaves will rust and readen on the bough
Civil servants will start to wrap things up
Now there's a job


This one's about the turning of the seasons, going around, coming full circle, and I think it was inspired by my last self-portrait with me looking decidedly grey. It's one of these poems I've been writing in recent years where the idea is there but it hasn't quite come together as I would have liked but I haven't got the patience to take it any further.

I liked the image I stared with, about Christmas rubber-stamping another year, and the rest flowed from there, for better or for worse. I didn't mean it to be criticising relatives, of which I have very few and we certainly don't have Christmases like I picture above, although I believe some do. There's a bit of irony in yet another year with yet another set of resolutions we'll hurry to break. And the leaves are always there, as symbols of passing time and lives. As for the civil servants, well, they're just there, wrapping up presents of one sort or another.

Then came the dog poem. I think I needed to get it out of my system. Hallmark honey but kind of funny. He's a funny old dog.


My Dog

My dog's got a mind of his own
My dog calls a bone a bone
My dog jumps from windows gaping
My dog flies through curtains draping
My dog poos in precious places
My dog enjoys licking faces
My dog slumbers at my feet
My dog always loves to eat
My dog breaks out once a week
My dog gives my toes a tweak
My dog loves his daily walk
My dog ignores me when I talk
My dog follows me around
My dog keeps his nose to the ground
My dog's a sheep in wolf's clothing
My dog's absence is my loathing
My dog's a food finding sleuth
My dog's cool and that's the truth
My dog adopted me one day
My dog is here and here to stay


Then came Going Grey, which is much less about actually going grey than I thought it was going to be, but I'm quite relieved really. I think I've done enough stuff about getting old in the traditional sense for now so something a bit less obvious was called for and welcome.


Going Grey

Like a comfy chair
Like a favourite sweater

I'll wear you
Take this skin
These bones

And put them on
And call them me

Like a cozy café
Like a favourite walk

I'll bear you
Take this weight
These stones

And cast them off
And call them he

Like a precious song
Like a favourite book

I'll share you
Take this hand
These thoughts

And wrap them up
And call them thee


This one's moved away from the anal retentive rhyming I normally do and has got a bit freer, both in imagery and in structure. I think the poem's a bit opaque but I decided to leave it that way, that is, open to interpretation, as opposed to a simple story with a clear beginning, middle and end. As to who the various characters or images are, not even I'm sure. The me, the he, the thee, these are all there to be absorbed and spat out in any way the reader sees fit.

Going Grey did start out in my mind about just that, but then moved on to something rather different, which I'm pleased about. A bit like when a painting takes a new direction despite your best intentions, and almost seems to speak to you and say 'No, not that way, this...' I'd like that to happen more often, it's an interesting thing.


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© 2012 
Sab Will / Paris Set Me Free - Contact me directly for enquiries about paintings, poetry, interviews, etc.

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