Wednesday, 11 April 2018

Hands

I continue my struggle with words and images. I was not satisfied with the window image so instead worked on a poem about hands.

The main issue I have is with my scruffy handwriting - although when I posted a photograph of this poem on Twitter Ian McMillan poet and presenter seemed to think my scrawl was acceptable - I'll take his approval.



The poem was triggered in my mind whilst washing my hands in our 'tired' bathroom - tired is the word used by people who want to sell us bathrooms - it is circa 1980's but with some arty twists.

Remember that bitter east wind - well I'd been working in the garden, my hands were very cold and washing them under hot water made me realise how privileged a thing it really is to have water on tap and a roof over my head.

Here it is in more legible form which is a revised version which needs to be edited on the fresco !

Giving Thanks

As I washed my cold hands under a hot tap
I gave thanks for hot water
Thanks for the old bathroom with its 80's tiles, sink and bath.

Do I thank myself for earning enough to pay a mortgage ?
Do I congratulate my work ethic ?
No
I am grateful beyond the material

Perhaps I should thank the stars - but they are without conscience
Boiling gases from the beginning of time

I thank a person made in heaven once called the bright and morning star
Perhaps not as tangible as THE stars
Or a mortgage
Or work
Or even the sweat of my brow

I recognise in this moment that I do not live on bread alone
I see a man not a vaporous God
Not an ether or a cloud
His hands were pierced
Strange that he is not a woman - perhaps he's not read his twitter feed

How do I know this is genuine/real ?
Well, this morning washing my cold hands in warm water
I felt embraced
Whole
Regarded
As I acknowledged how this one small comfort is monumental
Elemental
Grand
Warm water on cold hands
Sheltered from the east wind

I gave thanks.



So more work to do on the words

Paul.

Wednesday, 28 February 2018

Experimenting with more words and images

Window


The day passes quickly
With snow this morning melted now
And sun moving towards the DX -
It reaches in through the afternoon window of the thinking room
It moves from east to west
Or from left to right
Hides first behind the pines
Then the edge of Allt-Ty- Grug

February sun is low in the sky
So low it highlights the texture of this page
My wrinkled hand
And the threadbare hair upon it

Every day it ticks past this window to the clock's hands
Whether I live here or not
I grasp the day though
And love the way the back lit paintings on the sill come alive

I love the size of this sunny window
And the way it warms the room and my older bones
I see sparks of light
And cultivate a whole forest of ideas in my armchair
As this earth's day continues its flight
Through the eternal air


Now to translate this into a painting.

Tuesday, 6 February 2018

Yellow Hill



On the yellow hill there are no memorials
But set before it are fractured hollows where stone should be
And in the ruins and tramways stand the quarry men's houses
Where there are voices that we cannot hear

Nails in boots on cobbles
The dust and toil
The hail, wind, rain and snow

This is the place where voices would have been heard
They would have been here mixed with steam and hammer blows and furnaces
Cranes, shovels, tuns

The birds would have seen the capped heads of men
Iron wheels and oiled hands

Now they see the yellow hill
The curling grasses
And grazing the empty land - sheep, ponies, cows
And a man with a dog
Scribbling.


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An idea for another painting is formulating.

Paul.