Sections

Rumblings of thunder tumble from the clouds like grumbles of doom as the doors of Heaven creak open. A crescendo of rain splatters the flags and ricochets in coronets of water. Wands of lightning scream like missiles, zinging across the carbon sky.

In the centre of a drunken town a young man raves to a gathering crowd: ‘And I, the mighty Heracles, I feel the Hydra’s poison seeping like acid into my veins. How piteous my plight! My skin corrodes; flesh melts and sinew dissolves. See the cream of my bones poking through the gore.’

Electric domes spin silently, strobing cobalt blue on rubber-stretched faces. The looming officers are dressed for war and have back-up: a tinny voice and an alien language spat through the nostrils of an automaton woman: ’Negative Yankee Bravo 3. No record of anyone matching that description. Suggest you action Section 136 and take him to nearest designated place of safety.’

‘Leave me you creatures, return to your mountain,’ the wailing man begs, dropping hard on his knees in splashes of gutter puddles. ‘Send me Poeas to torch my pyre that I might fling my dying body in the flames.’

‘What is your name?’ the chief centaur demands, his thick arms inked with ancient symbols.

‘My name?’ the man mocks, leaping to his feet. ‘My name is Heracles!’ he screams into the centaur’s face, his words flung fearlessly in gobs of spittle.

The officer’s face contorts with anger and disgust. He and his comrades grab the man’s arms and wheel him round, crashing him face first onto the pavement with a sickening thud. Wrists lashed tight, they drag him to their chariot and bundle him inside.

The throng of people begin to disperse. Some are laughing and shaking their heads, some are singing and making lewd comments. Others drift away, unconcerned. One person, a woman, weeps softly as she holds the man’s tattered jacket to her breast.

‘Yankee Bravo 3, disturbance reported on the Mount Oeta estate, please detour and attend.’

‘Roger Charlie Echo 7. On our way.’

Sirens howl down waterlogged streets, spraying eerie shifts of Doppler in their wake. Revs of adrenalin, tyre-screech turns in a macho blaze of thrust.

‘Charlie Echo 7, arrived at the Mount Oeta estate, vehicle alight behind disused garages but no sign of suspects or any other emergency vehicles. Will take a closer look, over.’

A quantum crackle of energy jumps the gap as two realities bump edges. Storms break again and the driving rains of Philoctetes’ tears skid in angled slides down the window of the centaurs’ chariot: a thousand teardrops, each holding precious the sodium glow that soars many light years to the world of the man’s ancestors who have abandoned him now.

Hissing gases, mauve-blue-green. Ash clouds, licks of palsied flame, yellow twists of yang. Splats of falling water fizzing on hot iron. Up in the realms of midnight, a judder, a monumental bang as the firmament is exposed in a blinding flash of glory. Steam. The reek and choke of miasma: burning flesh fusing with hot metal.

‘Yankee Bravo 3, requesting an update from the town centre disturbance. Are you still en route to place of safety?’

‘Negative, Charlie Echo 7. Young man clearly thought-disordered and hallucinating. Aborted section 136, chose parallel section of immolation. It’s what he would have wanted. We have served Zeus.’

Merope

Below is my very first attempt at writing a sonnet. After completing the poem I was convinced it was a pretty average piece of poetry but, after some encouraging & supportive comments from my twitter chums, I've decided to offer it up for comments on my main blog page.


It is a Shakespearean sonnet written in iambic pentameter & the rhyming scheme is: a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, e-f-e-f, g-g


In Greek Mythology, Merope was one of the seven Pleiades. Astronomically, she is one of the seven sisters in the star cluster Pleiades in the constellation of Taurus.


I believe the correct pronounciation of Merope is 'Me-ro-pee'.


Merope

When I behold the silver crusted sky

you turn away, too shamed to meet my gaze.

Oh Merope, I bid thee do not cry -

What kindles your sidereal malaise?

Is it Orion’s chase that makes thee weep?

Did marrying a mortal bring you shame?

Each night before Erebus fosters sleep

I seek the wellhead whence your sorrow came.

Amidst the navy cloth of night you gleam,

A glowing sapphire stitched on heaven’s cloak.

Yet pulchritude does not beget esteem -

Your heart lies scorched ‘midst clouds of stellar smoke.

Switch off your starry light and let me be

your constellation for eternity.

Recession

This is the third of four ekphrastic poems inspired by the wonderful artwork of Melaneia Warwick. Before I reveal the poem I thought it might be interesting to share some of the process involved in its creation.


As with the previous two poems I sat myself down, took several deep breaths and stepped inside Melaneia's painting. I wandered round, gazing at the remarkable images and artefacts contained within it, even stopping to speak to them at times.


When I stepped back out I had little idea where to start. I had not connected  to the painting like I had on previous occasions. I felt unable to find my place within it. Something was troubling me, preventing me from beginning. Although the artwork intrigued me, I was aware that it also disturbed me. 


I looked at it again from the outside, confounded by its surreal quality. It reminded me of a Salvador Dali painting entitled 'Sleep' which is a painting of a monstrous head propped up by crutches. And then it struck me: Recession was the narrative of a nightmare. Now I had my starting point. I could climb back inside & start to gather all the symbolism & allegories together in order to create my poem.


For a whole day I toiled to create a blueprint of my poem. I could sense a journey of individuation, as if the dream contained unconscious material that, when interpreted, would somehow enlighten me. But I struggled and struggled to identify a coherent pathway from art to poem. I began to write but my words were laboured and forced. After two more days I began to despair until the strangest feeling began to consume me. I felt as though I was trapped inside painting and poem and could not find a way out.


And then it suddenly dawned: this was about death! My resistance to face up to this ~ my own mortality ~ had prevented me from engaging with the artwork. The painting was loaded with scary, deathly images but, having realised what was happening, I was able to surrender to these images and, in doing so, transcend the polarity of the life-death split. As Jung wrote, acknowledging the imminence of death and the limits of our existence allows us to let go of our egos, freeing the way for our creative Self to discover true meaning.


Finally, having overcome the obstacles that had prevented me from 'letting go' of my ego, I realised who the serene looking lady was at the bottom of Melaneia's painting. She was my anima, my femme inspiratrice, waiting patiently to accompany me back from my nightmare to a new space brimming with creative potential.

Above is Melaneia's incredible painting entitled Recession from her 'Gloaming' series ~ and here is my poem:

Recession

Like Coppelius, you lurk behind my eyes

                                                     waiting for darkfall.

Palsied by sleep I fail to hear your crutches

clack across the slick red mezzanine in my skull.

It is the reek of your breath that rouses me.

Looking up I see your voluminous head,

glimpse your mantic forearms as you loom above,

an incubus of pink gristle 

          spewing spoonfuls of curdled dreams

                                                    into my brain.

I strain to squall, to fling away the sheets but I lie

                                                 zip-tied like a corpse.

One final retch and your sphincter blows 

blasting out your gullet, spilling melted muscle

                                        through the hole in my id.

In the underworld, death smirks like a bullet-riddled clown.

A cartoon phantom sings in oblivion

scragged by threads of luminous plasma.

Yet under your jib an ageless lady sits gracefully

                                          waiting for wakefulness.

I blink hard and find myself at the edge of my nightmare

grasping the last few drops of allegory that slither

from the brim of your hat.

Soon, I will wander beyond the mortality line

                                back into the blue bag of night

towards a purpose glowing with afterlight. 

White Tulips

This poem has been languishing on my 'poetry' page for some time ~ so, after amending it slightly, I thought I would give it another airing on my main blog page.

White Tulips

You always said he would be early -
kidded by a false spring that, one morning,
            broke inside you,
hormones melting in quick thaws
            of pulsed muscle.


During those seven moons you were touched
by so many luminaries, some shining all the way
            from Eden.
With waters spilling on every pain
you saw those stars sink
            inside the doctor's eyes.


After two days you hauled back your body
and shuffled down corridors,
            stepped out through those glass doors.
And the world was big with cars,
the weather gentle
            with feminine light.


'No more frosts now,' you said
as white tulips settled in their beds,
            eggshells cracked in sunlight.

Static

Following on from my previous posting the poem below is also part of my collaboration with the visual artist Melaneia Warwick. After wandering around inside a specific piece of her art I have tried to create a poem that engages with the narrative of her painting. 


This process is known as ekphrasis and there are many examples of poets creating such poems that have been inspired by works of art: 'The Disquieting Muses' by Sylvia Plath, which is based on the painting by the same title by Giorgio de Chirico, 'The Starry Night' by Anne Sexton based on the hugely famous painting by Vincent van Gogh and, much more recently, the absolutely stunning  'What the Water Gave Me' by Pascale Petit, which contains fifty-two poems in the voice of the Mexican painter Frida Kahlo.  


Here is Melaneia's painting 'Static' from her 'Gloaming' series that inspired my poem:

And here is my poem:

Static

Dread was a concept you never really understood.
Only the sweet iron of stars and summer lightning

coloured your days as life straddled you, rode you

bareback and bitless over a switchback of tragedies.

When people spoke of the coming storm you saw

the twist of their lips but heard only tinkling cymbals.

Even the sweaty lick of their appled palms failed

to draw you from the reverie of your malted bed.

As the hours passed, you stared into a blackening sky

and waited, your skin frothed with latherin as prongs

of hot silver darted through your mane.  At long last

you began to smell the stench of your own immortality.

Spooked by the rumblings of a distant thunderhead

you jittered with ignorance as the first sparks fizzed

about your hooves. Hobbled and haltered, you gasped

as licks of yellow fire pulsed along bone-dry timbers.

Rafters, blazing like crazy now, collapsed and crashed

to the ground as the next bolt struck your blistered ego.

Veins popping, breath bloody and sputtered, you wept

black tears as the final explosion ripped off your legs.

That’s how I found you, petrified and smoking with insight,

a broken mustang, static beside the brightest blue ocean.

Trapped Memories, Invented Truths

When Melaneia Warwick recently invited me to collaborate with her on a limited edition book I was overjoyed. I had 'discovered' her and been following her as @Melaneia on Twitter for months, intrigued by her wonderful artwork.

Melaneia is a rapidly emerging visual artist who currently has a solo exhibition entitled 'Trapped Memories, Invented Truths' at the Butetown History & Arts Centre in Cardiff. Her artistic practice is concerned with the nature of oral history. She draws and paints in the way stories are told: there is a narrative, yet the characters are not figures but objects borrowed from friends’ houses – a top hat, an angel’s dress, a gourd.


These objects are not chosen for their formal properties but for the tales they could tell. Each bibelot (curio), whether a treasured or neglected possession, invites speculation about its history and, by association, our own: where does it come from? What has it endured? How will it be remembered?

Melaneia’s artistic process contains clues to her own history, one informed by her mother’s prowess as a storyteller, her dual nationality and her mastery of linguistics. In childhood she began painting with her fingers on woodchip paper. Now, she continues to forge a visceral connection with her subject. Rather than only drawing from observation, she uses her hands to explore its contours and its inner recesses and then draws from memory and sensation. It may take weeks to effect the object’s transition from a stranger spotted in a dusty store to a casual acquaintance to a much-loved friend.

Our collaboration, which we hope will come to fruition by the end of 2011, will focus on Melaneia’s 'Gloaming' series and include giclee prints, reflections, observations and word sketches: fairly brief interpretations of each of the four paintings in the series.

Although I have already written a number of preparatory haikus & senryus about each of the four paintings, I wanted to write a longer poem about a single painting that would afford me the space to word-paint my own invented truths. The painting I have chosen is called ‘Protective’: 

And here is my poetic interpretation, also called 'Protective', of Melaneia's painting:


You stood back at first, stunned by its opalescence
and nacreous pinks. Slowly, as if to spin out the thrill,
you raised it to your ear and gasped as Etesian winds
picked up those apple-scented murmurs of Eden.

It was when you peered inside and drew your finger

over its satin lamina that realisation began to dawn.

This was no discarded carapace. This was the creaking

frustration of compressed wings, a floundering Throne.

And then you saw her, the whole unfolding of her body

as she levitated in the gathering storm: a dithering angel

with coralline pinions, each laboured flap flinging droplets

of holy water, splashing a sacrament on your soft skin.

You smiled and held out your hands, invited her to stay,

said she could sleep in the room purged of all shadows.

That was when Truth raised her eyebrows in disbelief,

when the squall struck, sweeping her back to the sea.

Latching

In a theatre of green sanitized people

you lay blocked into submission,

screened from the red-soaked gauzes

piled like sandbags round your belly.

‘Is she alive?’ you asked me,

your eyes crushed with disbelief.

Four days later (your milk

still oozy droplets of yellow)

I watched the pain raid your face

as you softly trod the cobblestones

in our street, sunlit puddles

of mud steaming like butter-rich stew.

Driven by moon tides, your baby

(all ribs and thin flesh,

her navel clipped in pink plastic)

lurched blindly to your swollen nipple.

Your eyes, blue as stars

blazed gently on her artless fumbles.

When morning yawned we huddled

like hostages, her tiny breathings

captured beneath soft blankets.

Pillow-propped, you offered her your milk.

I caught the heft of your sigh

as she suckled to the lick of your flow.