The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
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This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
Sunday, 22 July 2012
The garden that thought itself a spinney
I watch him soak the paper,
take in hand the brown and sticky tape
and run it round the paper's sides
to seal them to the board.
We wait. The paper as it dries
pulls taut. The day
is gloomy yet
with just a trace of sun about to break
beyond the foliage.
He sits. Allows the board to rest
so lightly on his knees.
Shapes. Areas of interest.
Rich and dark and difficult to recognise.
He sprays the paper - lightly now -
and on the wet
floods in his reds and greens,
lighter for the foliage.
Dull shadows of a violet hue.
A wisp of blotting paper. Rolled,
he uses it to draw in detail, bring
the image roughly into shape.
Light on dark. It's like a negative
emerging in a photographic tray.
He sprays again (The paper
has begum to dry.)
The water droplets granulate the paint.
He floods in powerful cadmiums -
reds and yellows. Sprays again -
the shadows now - then rubs them
with his finger tips and thumb.
(A risky business
that could turn the painting
to a sea of mud.
This time it works O.K..)
A spot or two of opaque paint
and all is done - a woodland scene
from one small garden grown.
Written for Claudia's Poetics : in Schillers footsteps