The P.C.'s booted up and I am settled back, when: Are you very busy? Wife from the next room. Not terribly, I lie. Look out the window then! I do. My, my! Great Jeosophat! I cry - or something, not a bit like that. Nailed to the front gate post another, thinner, ten feet tall atop of which, a shining board that reads FOR SALE - a bigger lie by far, than any I have told. My wife is on the 'phone, and I am on my way with tools enough to do the job - the crow bar, though has taken off, gone A.W.O.L. on its own. Insert the battered chisel. Prise. Lever. Swear. No go. A few sledge hammer blows should do the job. One. Two... Surprising me, the post and board spin through the air and come to ground just where I stand. Next thing: the postie calls with packages to sign. Did I just see... he asks, your house for sale? You did. It's not! I see... You don't! I've recently debated with him about a football referee: how one might come to "see" a thing that didn't happen. I take him back to our discussion, point out the similarity. The metaphysics slows him down. The round will take an extra hour.
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Showing posts with label light-hearted. Show all posts
Showing posts with label light-hearted. Show all posts
Saturday, 27 October 2012
A post, the post and what have they to do with metaphysics?
Wednesday, 17 October 2012
She's Just a Paper Angel...
She's a tissue paper angel, more fragile than the light -- a whisper of a wind would blow her out of sight. She's a daily paper angel (always breaking news) she free falls from the stars -- a Baumgartner with the blues. She's a silver paper angel -- just a sliver cut from God with a mandate to redeem us with her wand of goldenrod. She's a sugar paper angel with a country pad on Mars who has built us all a heaven within a crystal vase. She's a paper tiger angel, the Almighty's strict enforcer, but with thistledown for claws she'll do no more than purr. She's a blotting paper angel who will mop your every tear -- and as an extra bonus will pulp your darkest fear. She's an origami angel whose madly into art thinks her Sister of the North has far the hardest part.
Thursday, 20 September 2012
exercises with moving parts
(Scroll down for the back story.)
Take any two poems and open them up. Imagine they are clockwork clocks or watches. Relative to their respective lengths, which one is most liberally provided with moving parts - in your opinion? Do you not think this one the better poem, The more moving of the two? Billy Collins's Japan * has more moving parts than either Little Giddings** by T. S. Eliot or Margaret Atwood's This is a photograph of me.*** Discuss. If you prefer, discuss among yourselves. Choose any poem you admire. Highlight in yellow all the moving parts. Do they make sense without the rest? Do the rest add up to anything without them? ............................................ * Japan ** Little Giddings *** This is a Photograph of Me
Back Story Yesterday I went to my Amazon account and was surprised to discover that two books were wending their way towards me: One which has been on my shelves for a year or two now and was marked as being due for delivery in September 2010; the other I had not heard of, but being only a few pounds and being that I might have ordered it and then forgotten all about it, I decided to let it be. It was (is) called Moving Parts. It served to remind me that once long ago I wrote an essay comparing a poem to a watch with moving parts. (This was long before the digital age, of course. The essay has gone the way of all flesh. I might have to rethink it, but here for now this knocked-off poem!
And having foisted this load of nonsense on you, I am ducking off now, taking cover until early next week when I will once again stick my head above the parapet and endeavour to answer any comments you may have left. Adios.
Monday, 7 November 2011
The Poetry Reading
The oven was hung with icicles,
the toaster was singing a song,
while a plant and a pie were playing I-Spy.
The kitchen was totally mad.
Such was the vision of one young man,
a runner-up in the 5-8 category.
Not a verse from his poem,
just four odd lines pulled at random
from "Kitchen" - a totally hilarious offering.
He sits to thunderous applause.
Thoroughly well deserved.
Follow that!
My turn to read.
I down the rest of the Chablis.
(The rest of my glass, that is),
pick up the type-script,
stand,
cough,
grab the right elbow which is off doing a jig.
Everyone thinks it's nerves, of course.
Which it isn't.
It's a tremor I have.
Filial...
Alright then. It's a tremor exaggerated by nerves!
I read three lines (and a bit).
A door bags open.
The Old Woman of the Sea enters.
Shuffles to the rear.
Sits.
The papers in my hand flap like flags in a high wind.
Why am I even reading this?
I know the damn thing, word perfect.
Am I afraid my mind will go blank?
That must be it.
But why so many nerves?
I'm well used to speaking in public.
Too much Chablis?
I can't see the damn lines to read them, anyway.
I bet they can't even hear me at the back...
not above the flapping of these papers.
I chuck the script.
All the entries are on display around the room.
I read them earlier.
Didn't do a lot to boost my confidence,
seeing what I'm up against.
Do professional poets
have to earn their living this way?
There's always someone
worse off than yourself!
Somehow I croak my way to the end.
Sit.
Reach for another glass of Chablis.
the toaster was singing a song,
while a plant and a pie were playing I-Spy.
The kitchen was totally mad.
Such was the vision of one young man,
a runner-up in the 5-8 category.
Not a verse from his poem,
just four odd lines pulled at random
from "Kitchen" - a totally hilarious offering.
He sits to thunderous applause.
Thoroughly well deserved.
Follow that!
My turn to read.
I down the rest of the Chablis.
(The rest of my glass, that is),
pick up the type-script,
stand,
cough,
grab the right elbow which is off doing a jig.
Everyone thinks it's nerves, of course.
Which it isn't.
It's a tremor I have.
Filial...
Alright then. It's a tremor exaggerated by nerves!
I read three lines (and a bit).
A door bags open.
The Old Woman of the Sea enters.
Shuffles to the rear.
Sits.
The papers in my hand flap like flags in a high wind.
Why am I even reading this?
I know the damn thing, word perfect.
Am I afraid my mind will go blank?
That must be it.
But why so many nerves?
I'm well used to speaking in public.
Too much Chablis?
I can't see the damn lines to read them, anyway.
I bet they can't even hear me at the back...
not above the flapping of these papers.
I chuck the script.
All the entries are on display around the room.
I read them earlier.
Didn't do a lot to boost my confidence,
seeing what I'm up against.
Do professional poets
have to earn their living this way?
There's always someone
worse off than yourself!
Somehow I croak my way to the end.
Sit.
Reach for another glass of Chablis.
Monday, 17 October 2011
Titchtown United
When they demolished the stadium
the fans bought squares of its turf
and took them home
and fitted them into their well-kept lawns.
Then nothing disturbed the tranquil ways
of their well-kept town until the day
when the brand new season dawned. Which was when
they found the squares were out of control
and the grasses therein were thicker
and longer and stronger and far far greener
than those which composed the lawns of old.
And then there was something else:
the grasses could not be cut, they found,
not with mower or shears or any mechanical tool.
And still they were growing
and not only growing but spreading,
and not only spreading but singing.
Yes, that's right, the new grass was singing,
horrendously singing, way out of tune.
It was singing the songs of the fans,
the songs that the terraces knew,
the songs that were green, but also blue.
And not only singing, but swaying
swaying in time to the singing.
And not only grasses, the town:
the whole town was singing - or so it would seem
if you happened to pass that way.
Soon it was taller than sunflowers, taller than trees,
and still it was singing and still it was swaying
and people covered their ears
and they closed all their doors
and not even a window was left ajar.
And only the fans and the players of football
enjoyed the songs that the grasses sang.
Then experts came with knowing ways
and examined the grasses, and let it be known
That: "of course they will sing, for their stems are hollow,
they've reeds in the wind to sing!"
For by now among them was pampas grass and several reeds
and sugar canes and tough bamboos,
and cocksfoot and fog and perenniel rye,
and the roughest of rough-stalked meadow -
though not one of these grasses and been in the squares
that they'd bought when the stadium closed.
And their little town became known as the town
with thousands of towering towers.
There were leaning towers and straggly towers,
thick towers and thin towers, all manner of towers,
and all of them towers of the living grass.
Next thing they found: the grass could be cut
as long as the cutter would sing along
in tune with the grass that was out of tune
and sway in time to the swaying grass. Next thing,
the grasses developed an orange stripe
- orange and green was the strip of their team.
So the fans cut wands of the waving blades
and took them along to cheer the lads,
and they waved and they sang and made such a din -
and never again did they win.
the fans bought squares of its turf
and took them home
and fitted them into their well-kept lawns.
Then nothing disturbed the tranquil ways
of their well-kept town until the day
when the brand new season dawned. Which was when
they found the squares were out of control
and the grasses therein were thicker
and longer and stronger and far far greener
than those which composed the lawns of old.
And then there was something else:
the grasses could not be cut, they found,
not with mower or shears or any mechanical tool.
And still they were growing
and not only growing but spreading,
and not only spreading but singing.
Yes, that's right, the new grass was singing,
horrendously singing, way out of tune.
It was singing the songs of the fans,
the songs that the terraces knew,
the songs that were green, but also blue.
And not only singing, but swaying
swaying in time to the singing.
And not only grasses, the town:
the whole town was singing - or so it would seem
if you happened to pass that way.
Soon it was taller than sunflowers, taller than trees,
and still it was singing and still it was swaying
and people covered their ears
and they closed all their doors
and not even a window was left ajar.
And only the fans and the players of football
enjoyed the songs that the grasses sang.
Then experts came with knowing ways
and examined the grasses, and let it be known
That: "of course they will sing, for their stems are hollow,
they've reeds in the wind to sing!"
For by now among them was pampas grass and several reeds
and sugar canes and tough bamboos,
and cocksfoot and fog and perenniel rye,
and the roughest of rough-stalked meadow -
though not one of these grasses and been in the squares
that they'd bought when the stadium closed.
And their little town became known as the town
with thousands of towering towers.
There were leaning towers and straggly towers,
thick towers and thin towers, all manner of towers,
and all of them towers of the living grass.
Next thing they found: the grass could be cut
as long as the cutter would sing along
in tune with the grass that was out of tune
and sway in time to the swaying grass. Next thing,
the grasses developed an orange stripe
- orange and green was the strip of their team.
So the fans cut wands of the waving blades
and took them along to cheer the lads,
and they waved and they sang and made such a din -
and never again did they win.
Saturday, 15 October 2011
The German Way With Words
The Germans like portmanteau-words -
with not a single dash in sight.
New lexicons are for the birds,
their words will never see the light.
Inventors of a language glue
by means of which
a word will stick
to any other word they pick.
ThelongestwordthatIcanfind: Rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsaufgabenübertragungsgesetz:
(the labelling of beef, I'm told): like Topsy, it just grew.
Concatenation is their choice:
pronunciation takes your voice.
The words spool out, mile after mile -
and some are longer than the Nile
with words like trucks of endless trains.
They never have to scratch their brains
to find a word for something new
when strings of older words will do.
Or is it shortness that offends?
and joining makes the length that mends?
with not a single dash in sight.
New lexicons are for the birds,
their words will never see the light.
Inventors of a language glue
by means of which
a word will stick
to any other word they pick.
ThelongestwordthatIcanfind: Rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsaufgabenübertragungsgesetz:
(the labelling of beef, I'm told): like Topsy, it just grew.
Concatenation is their choice:
pronunciation takes your voice.
The words spool out, mile after mile -
and some are longer than the Nile
with words like trucks of endless trains.
They never have to scratch their brains
to find a word for something new
when strings of older words will do.
Or is it shortness that offends?
and joining makes the length that mends?
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Little King
I bet he walks two steps behind his queen.
Self-effacing little king,
he holds the sceptre of his power
and majesty behind his back -
not to be seen.
Bashful little thing!
He stands upon The Daily Rag,
the news of common man, consumer man,
but hasn't opened it.
Such outward things dwell not in his desires,
his mind is on some astral plane.
His ermine trim is faux, of course;
he's greener than the bees.
He sings from angel hymn sheets -
but when they sing, he leaves.
His morning coffee has been served.
He's turned his back on it,
prefers the nectar of the gods -
and walks two steps in front of them,
insisting on his right. But here, his queen
of six feet seven, blocks out all his light.
My thanks to Magpie Tales for the image/prompt.
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Who needs memory?
David Shechtman
Latest Nobel Laureate
for chemistry
discovered quasi-crystals
back in '82.
So everybody laughed.
(Not I, did you?)
First came the fractals
endlessly repeating
their own forms
on every scale;
now quasi-crystals,
exactly the reverse,
in non-repeating
patterns to infinity.
So they forced him
to resign. "No such
thing," they said
"as quasi-crystals -
only quasi scientists."
They knew - as did
we all - that matter,
all of solid matter
for that matter,
is composed
of crystals packed
in regular arrays.
Not so for quasi
crystals. Each stage
makes a transition
to the next, creates
the pattern
next in line.
The past
is meaningless.
It's strictly no repeats.
The process is
completely memoryless.
I and Quasi-crystals
have that much
in common.
Let me repeat...
except I can't, I too
am (almost)
sans recall! But I
shall sing it
from the rooftops.
Man achieves
what nature
pioneers... in
Medieval Mosques
mosaics have
this self same form.
Beauty can blossom
without memory!
Yipeeeeee!
There's hope for me!
The upper image is of some aperiodic (or quasi-) crystals. The lower one is of mosaic tiles laid to an aperiodic pattern.
Wednesday, 7 September 2011
So your poem's too long for a major prize?
Poet of poems too long to win prizes,
how would it be / if you trimmed / them a bit?
wrote them / the way your / reviewers / transcribe them?
Your eighty five lines / became forty / or less?
(The absolute most / most judges can read!)
I've "slashed" this stanza (in part) to show
how sixteen short lines are reduced to seven.
but u myt nd 2 shrtN yr epic's lines
2 telescope mor of em N2 1.
dat bn so, considA transcribing
1st 2 d lang of txt.
Here, second stanza's translation:-
But you might need to shorten your epic's lines
to telescope more of them into one.
That being so, consider transcribing
first to the language of text.
how would it be / if you trimmed / them a bit?
wrote them / the way your / reviewers / transcribe them?
Your eighty five lines / became forty / or less?
(The absolute most / most judges can read!)
I've "slashed" this stanza (in part) to show
how sixteen short lines are reduced to seven.
but u myt nd 2 shrtN yr epic's lines
2 telescope mor of em N2 1.
dat bn so, considA transcribing
1st 2 d lang of txt.
Here, second stanza's translation:-
But you might need to shorten your epic's lines
to telescope more of them into one.
That being so, consider transcribing
first to the language of text.
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
Land Art - as a cottage industry
It has recently occurred to me that I haven't posted one of my Land Art photos since June 2009 (see it here!), so I'm guessing that some of my good friends out there will be having pretty serious withdrawal symptoms by this time. Not to worry, here is the latest:
As you will observe, this time I am treating you to a night shot - this is purely and simply in the interests of variety only, and has no special significance.
You might like to compare the two and note the development of my art - or maybe not. As my title indicates, though, it has occurred to me that this could become quite a lucrative cottage industry. I'm thinking along the lines of those jig-saw mats you can buy which allow you to roll up your unfinished puzzle to store it - or to take it on holiday with you, should you feel so inclined. How about that? A bit of cottage land art, roll it up in an industrial version of the mat and flog it at a car boot sale? What think you friends?
One motive behind all this is a developing passion for the work of a young artist, Ingrid Calame, rapidly coming into prominence with an art based on tracing the minutiae of imperfections, cracks, bobbles, chips, inscriptions, marks of all sorts on the ground. All sorts of ground. It struck me that it's a land art of sorts, even if not advertised as such. Here is an image of one of her works.
As you will observe, this time I am treating you to a night shot - this is purely and simply in the interests of variety only, and has no special significance.
You might like to compare the two and note the development of my art - or maybe not. As my title indicates, though, it has occurred to me that this could become quite a lucrative cottage industry. I'm thinking along the lines of those jig-saw mats you can buy which allow you to roll up your unfinished puzzle to store it - or to take it on holiday with you, should you feel so inclined. How about that? A bit of cottage land art, roll it up in an industrial version of the mat and flog it at a car boot sale? What think you friends?
One motive behind all this is a developing passion for the work of a young artist, Ingrid Calame, rapidly coming into prominence with an art based on tracing the minutiae of imperfections, cracks, bobbles, chips, inscriptions, marks of all sorts on the ground. All sorts of ground. It struck me that it's a land art of sorts, even if not advertised as such. Here is an image of one of her works.
Friday, 12 August 2011
Time Was Away
I read a novel
in which the end of the world
came long before
the end of the book.
Similarly,
a dream I had
pre-dated
the Big Bang
A colleague told me
he had memories
of being in the womb -
but not of leaving it
or getting there!
The same colleague
has deja vu moments
all the time. He claims
his whole life
is one long reprise -
played backwards.
Our infant son
would move
the clock's hands on
to bring his mum
home sooner.
(It seemed to work!)
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Land Art - en plein air and indoors : Two Poems
1
Three conifers
stand in isolation
on a sandy inland beach.
I take a curving path
towards them. As I walk
they also move.
Change places
glide around each other,
always within touching distances.
Between their three trunks -
initially -
a lake,
a glistening stretch
beckoning
invitingly.
Most entrances are taped
denying access
(toxic algae?)
though boats sail peacefully.
2
Covering a panel -
thick viridian green -
I blend in ochre, umber, several greys,
then deeply score from left to right.
A sharp tool
digging down
exposing the bare board -
a furrow through a tract of land
where centuries of feet have worn
a path, a highway, movements of a man
or men. I scrape
and scratch - the paint
is hardening -
the first score's perpendicular,
then drag in white
for chalk and black
for coal. I see it
as a sort of land art
grown at home
diminutive in scale.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Injunction!
Coming home one Friday night,
admittedly, the worse for wear,
I saw Sir Malcolm Oversight
entering The Dog and Bear -
with a small whip in his hand.
He was riding Miss West Riding '91
and neither seemed to have a care -
not care a toss for anyone.
I took my story straight away
to every rag I thought might pay,
and long before the morning light
I'd riches promised out of sight.
They'd stake it out, The Dog and Bear,
and if it proved that I was right
beyond my dreams would be my share.
Alas, before such things could take their course
a new injunction was in force.
admittedly, the worse for wear,
I saw Sir Malcolm Oversight
entering The Dog and Bear -
with a small whip in his hand.
He was riding Miss West Riding '91
and neither seemed to have a care -
not care a toss for anyone.
I took my story straight away
to every rag I thought might pay,
and long before the morning light
I'd riches promised out of sight.
They'd stake it out, The Dog and Bear,
and if it proved that I was right
beyond my dreams would be my share.
Alas, before such things could take their course
a new injunction was in force.
Sunday, 18 July 2010
First Car, First Love
Argent be the driver of this week's poetry bus, and he be offering two tickets, one being for a giggle-worthy ride, the other a somewhat sadder affair concerning a broken affair. This is one of those tickets - hopefully valid.
First car, first kiss, two loves, first ex...
Cause and effects and how they vex.
Gloss green, two-seats, a luggage rack -
trendy too - no half-seat in the back!
And I was green - without the chrome.
Peerless we were when close to home.
Our favourite haunt, the loving tree.
She loved the car; I thought she fancied me.
But of the kisses I'll not tell,
nor what took place to break the spell.
In any case, the die was cast:
four battered knees - it could not last.
Four parents ending the affair,
my rapture turning to despair.
The final blow had been a shock:
crunch time for knees - a stumbling block,
the pedals now too near the seat
for push-pull motions of the feet.
Two loves lost to a single blow,
a world of sunshine turned to snow.
The car first mothballed and then sold -
first ever thoughts of growing old,
first ever thoughts that what you know
can turn to nothing as you grow.
The world was not a faithful place
with love and loss so commonplace.
Haiku #207
The Gulf oil spillage
said to be what the US burns -
every five hours.
(Every 5 hours, 10 minutes, to be precise,
but this statistic struck me rather forcibly.
The volume is said to be 184 million gallons.)
First car, first kiss, two loves, first ex...
Cause and effects and how they vex.
Gloss green, two-seats, a luggage rack -
trendy too - no half-seat in the back!
And I was green - without the chrome.
Peerless we were when close to home.
Our favourite haunt, the loving tree.
She loved the car; I thought she fancied me.
But of the kisses I'll not tell,
nor what took place to break the spell.
In any case, the die was cast:
four battered knees - it could not last.
Four parents ending the affair,
my rapture turning to despair.
The final blow had been a shock:
crunch time for knees - a stumbling block,
the pedals now too near the seat
for push-pull motions of the feet.
Two loves lost to a single blow,
a world of sunshine turned to snow.
The car first mothballed and then sold -
first ever thoughts of growing old,
first ever thoughts that what you know
can turn to nothing as you grow.
The world was not a faithful place
with love and loss so commonplace.
The Gulf oil spillage
said to be what the US burns -
every five hours.
(Every 5 hours, 10 minutes, to be precise,
but this statistic struck me rather forcibly.
The volume is said to be 184 million gallons.)
Sunday, 13 June 2010
The Etymological Poetry Bus
Recently I have been noting down the spam-slamming code "words" that confront one on some blogs, for some have amused me and the thought arose that with enough to choose from they might naturally fall into a nonsense rhyme of some sort. Then I found that one of two optional challenges set by Revolutionary Revelry for this week's Poetry Bus involved a search for the etymology of one's name and the writing of a poem relating to it. My name, as it happens, derives from Early English and, yes, the cadoodling code words looked and sounded every bit as Anglo Saxon as nonsense - or so I thought. So if you will excuse my (very basic) Anglo Saxon, here is my offering:
Nistram Cyning unmolers his stiessen
in the pheersch heete of the sunne.
Jectigging akrost the skiiy, a skryhork
ovvamann, he phlabbifibbles hisswae
to Trigoch Chlestivvi wharr is Scornordold Horll.
Cyning, fust muddller of linnieaal names,
weel mackhisselv King, as I am King,
for from the Early English Cyning
cummes King - promo
tingim from Tribal Leader
to be krounedd in Scornordold Horll,
wharr is lerkynd to this tyme the menny gosts
of Nistram and his dishprate ckrewe.
I have tried to use only the security "words" I came across and small words, prepositions and the like. I have not been entirely successful in that and have had to raid modern English for "Tribal", for "leader", "Early English" and for "King". "Cyning", of course is the odd one out - it is genuinely Old English. Occasionally I have conflated two shorter "words" to make a longer one.
Friday, 14 May 2010
... and here's one I prepared earlier...
Several visitors commenting on my recent poem mentioned an interest or a delight in lily pools or pads, so I thought I would post one of my watercolours of the said pool.
And here for good measure one I doodled to accompany the poem. Not meant as an illustration, of course, just a light-hearted doodle.
The background, you might be interested to know, is a sandy bank with, beyond it, two amazing tree-tunnels - though much of the vegetation has been cleared and the trees lopped since then, so I doubt whether they are still there.
And here for good measure one I doodled to accompany the poem. Not meant as an illustration, of course, just a light-hearted doodle.
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Distorted? Moi?
My thanks to all for your interest and contributions.
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Dance of Life
This belongs with, is a later stage in the sequence of, my Global Warming Digital Doodles.
checking your emotions
to alert the other drivers.
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Party Time : amuse - or lose - your friends this XMAS
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 as well as you do. Get me? Okay, in essence this is what you do: you give them all a sheet of paper and some pens, crayons, paints, body fluids - whatever turns you (and them) on - and you ask them to draw or paint a picture of Father Christmas to the very best of their ability. Not artistic ability, mind. Not drawing ability, no that is not what we are drawing on at all. They just need to summon up to the very best of their ability an image of Father Christmas in all his detailed glory and get as much of that as they can down on the paper.
Then you n eed to mark it - or they mark their own or each others or whatever. For which there is a marking key, viz:- One point is awarded for each of the following details included in the drawing:
1. Head present
2. Legs present
3. Arms present
4. trunk present
5. The length of the trunk is greater than its breadth
6. Shoulders are indicated
7. Both arms and legs are attached to the trunk
8. As above, all attached at the correct points.
9. N eck present
10 Neck continuous with head and/or trunk
11 Eyes present
12 Nose present
13 Mouth present
14 Nose and mouth in 2 dimensions and 2 lips indicated
15 Nostrils indicated
16 Hair shown (For hair, you might decide to read "whiskers"!
17 The hair is non-transparent over more than the circumference of the head.
18 Clothing present
19 Two items of clothing non-transparent
20 Both sleeves and both troser legs shown non-transparently.
21 4 or more items of clothing definitely indicated.
22 Costume complete - no inconsistencies
23 Fingers shown
24 Correct number of fingers shown
25 Fingers shown in 2 dimensions - ie their length greater than their breadth and at an angle of less than 180
26 Opposition of thumb shown
27 Hand shown distinct from fingers and arms
28 Arm joint shown - elbow and/or shoulder
29 Leg joint shown - knee and/or hip
30 Head in proportion
31 Arms in proportion
32 Legs in proportion
33 Feet in proportion
34 Both arms and legs in 2 dimensions
35 Heel shown
36 The lines are firm and do not overlap at junctions (unlike the drawin gs of many famous artists!)
37 Firm lines with correct joining
38 The head's outline is "shaped" - i.e. is not just shown as a circle.
39 Trunk outline ditto
40 There is no narrowing of the limbs at their jun ctions with the body
41 The features are symmetrical and in their correct positions
42 Ears present
43 Ears correctly positioned and proportioned
44 Eyebrows and eye lashes shown
45 Pupil(sL of eye(s) shown
46 The length of the eye(s) greater than the height
47 Eye glance directed to front in profile
48 Chin and forehead both shown
49 Projection of chin shown
50 Profile has less than two errors
51 Correct profile
You have given your friend(s) The Goodenough Draw a Man Test. This used to be administered to young children (3 - 10 years) to establish their mental age and/or I.Q. (Oh, God, it's not still being used is it? Tell me it's not!) It's up to you whether or not you tell them that they have just betrayed their mental age/ I.Q . If you go that far, it's up to you whether you also impart the information that the test is incapable of producing a mental age greater than 15 3/4 years.
It might depend on whether or not you were planning a cull of your friends this year or wanted to see which of them were the best sports or... well, you know what you're doing! To proceed: You give everyone a base age of 3. You then add 1/4 year for each point scored. Thus 9 points would equal 3 + 9/4 = 5 1/4 years.
Sunday, 29 March 2009
Lines of Stress
(another from Lessons of the Life Class)
The centre line is not a line of stress,
would come to be his mantra in the months ahead,
but way back then it had an after-thought:
unless your subject is a pile of sand.
First time I heard it, it was growled at me.
I thought I'd drawn the loveliest of arabesques,
not centre line nor yet a line of force -
a worthy rival to Matisse's curves.
Think: line of least resistance, lad, a river's course;
or be a surgeon, mark her for the cut!
There, there and there! The loaded camel hair
delivered cobalt blue as though a dam had burst.
She's lumps of living jelly, lad, a mass
of underlying forms. What holds her up?
Two armatures... steel girders... call them what you will.
One from the shoulder, crosswise through her cleft,
then down (as tangent to the large globe of
her abdomen) to this audacious hip - a hook
from which the world might hang. The other line
of stress is perpendicular - it thrusts
its way through that fine leg to her enormous toe.
And all the while he almost danced to splash
his cobalt blue, and all the while as well
there came a screech like chalk across a greasy board.
Ill-famed graffitist of our student daubs...
But not that day. That day he'd demonstrate,
directly on the model's skin, exactly where
the scalpel should go in. Surprised she screeched?
My big surprise was that she held the pose!
The centre line is not a line of stress,
would come to be his mantra in the months ahead,
but way back then it had an after-thought:
unless your subject is a pile of sand.
First time I heard it, it was growled at me.
I thought I'd drawn the loveliest of arabesques,
not centre line nor yet a line of force -
a worthy rival to Matisse's curves.
Think: line of least resistance, lad, a river's course;
or be a surgeon, mark her for the cut!
There, there and there! The loaded camel hair
delivered cobalt blue as though a dam had burst.
She's lumps of living jelly, lad, a mass
of underlying forms. What holds her up?
Two armatures... steel girders... call them what you will.
One from the shoulder, crosswise through her cleft,
then down (as tangent to the large globe of
her abdomen) to this audacious hip - a hook
from which the world might hang. The other line
of stress is perpendicular - it thrusts
its way through that fine leg to her enormous toe.
And all the while he almost danced to splash
his cobalt blue, and all the while as well
there came a screech like chalk across a greasy board.
Ill-famed graffitist of our student daubs...
But not that day. That day he'd demonstrate,
directly on the model's skin, exactly where
the scalpel should go in. Surprised she screeched?
My big surprise was that she held the pose!
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