and a Chinese Blue and White Vase
—Arthur Dudley (Britain) 19th/20th Century
* * *
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Artwork Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Artwork Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth
ORANGES AND CHERRIES
The daily privilege of choice
was known by me when moving house.
Painted in oils, Dutch vessels fish,
but evening drab, dirt fog the murk,
vast unattractive sea scape spread.
I chose the black-framed Dudley print
cherry basket, vase, oranges.
No cash value attached at all,
but print hangs from the wall at home.
Behind us, sixty years ago,
I trace the bookshelves—upstairs now—
tobacco jar, a bowl, a bell,
and from the twenties picture rail
hook the framed orange, cheap heirloom,
but family tradition grew.
In snaps, black and white, first colour,
the fruit seemed always edible.
I wonder who acquired and when;
did they find the peel, pips and pith
so realistic, palate won.
I look at artist's other work,
the still-life items re-arranged,
pot boilers, but each richly juiced.
The daily privilege of choice
was known by me when moving house.
Painted in oils, Dutch vessels fish,
but evening drab, dirt fog the murk,
vast unattractive sea scape spread.
I chose the black-framed Dudley print
cherry basket, vase, oranges.
No cash value attached at all,
but print hangs from the wall at home.
Behind us, sixty years ago,
I trace the bookshelves—upstairs now—
tobacco jar, a bowl, a bell,
and from the twenties picture rail
hook the framed orange, cheap heirloom,
but family tradition grew.
In snaps, black and white, first colour,
the fruit seemed always edible.
I wonder who acquired and when;
did they find the peel, pips and pith
so realistic, palate won.
I look at artist's other work,
the still-life items re-arranged,
pot boilers, but each richly juiced.
Fantasy on Faust
—Mariano Fortuny (Spain), 1866
ALCHEMY
How grandly played—though scores so low—
to gain the Casanova’s love,
the art of music, paint, as one
at home with classmate, Catalan,
Flor Baja studio, Madrid.
The canvas notes the evening’s frame,
inspiring sketch by trinity;
performance wild as Goethe’s hand,
a purple suit, embroidered gold,
a silk cape, cock-a-hoop with hat.
Low sweeping owl speaks evil, death,
the devil’s revels, Brocken Harz,
where pines would weep their resin tears,
till May Day closed Walpurga’s Eve—
Frank abbess blessed, Pope Adrian.
The strokes brush freely, energy,
Mephisto’s magic alchemy,
fortunate pact named Faustian—
near heavy cloth, weaved dyeing nap—
so far from feather flying cap.
So celebrate as picture tells,
not dubious deals, immoral tales—
though warnings voiced in Johann’s play—
but sheer spiration forte’s keys,
Fortuny’s tag shared everywhere.
The Best is Yet to Come
—Lorette C. Luzajic (Canada), 2019
REALIZED
Do I take the obvious,
leaping from the screen?
The influence that money bought,
the products made to hear?
And when my eye, forced to view,
the pupil, parrot-taut,
do I relax and broaden scape,
seek out the reticent?
Collage or is it collagen,
body parts that no one sees?
When norms retreat,
life back to front, or mirror images,
pretend not there, just look away,
or lay-by, temporary?
For my control to overwrite,
to colour as I choose;
transform the landscape overlaid
and mindfulness pursue.
The canvas mine, the palette range,
the dominating seen.
What scene is in my orbit scan
to cast or grasp or field?
Woman Holding a Balance
—Vermeer
CHOICES
Compose, delineate by draught,
to judge frame set, below, above,
the weight between the pearls or price,
choice made before the box is closed,
but pregnant maid now wimple hint,
rich trim of fur, a question mark?
Vermeer invites to peer within—
who would not welcome, seen at home,
to celebrate our core of life,
or distance us from its abuse,
to draw contrast, privileged tour,
but most, on course, our history books?
But what the story, steered response,
who painted words but victory—
whoever vanquished, patron gained?
If won by jewels, hang, the face,
intensity of commonplace,
rare string, glance gold, posed glimmer sight.
The dimmer brick, silk buckled blue,
who threw rich cloth, firm table top,
an exercise, some Mary view,
chance mediate, loyal a truth,
unbroken mould that rules the roost,
manipulate, thrice cock to rue?
Light upper left that seeks to seep,
as if epiphany at hand,
but will it pause by window veil,
while meditate on what before?
Will it prevail that darker place,
stark eroteme, interior?
My creed tells stain birthmark is strong
and black holds sway within our room;
but age, my route, suggest a wrong,
that folk who move where I have walked
the better scene, their street seems good.
The art, theology alert?
Still Life
—Giorgio Morandi (Italy), 1956
PRIVATE ARTS
Monaco springs with vibrant pulse,
spin low tax, grand-prix, roulette wheels,
sum wealth, full fashions for display.
Il Monaco, the monk, as known,
Bologna cell for eremite;
here brush the tranquil of still life,
years spanned as Studiorum stands.
Bottles and boxes, vases, jugs,
as dun-baked village on the hill,
San Gimignano and the sky.
The monumental brought to ledge,
all labels gone, letters erased,
glare glass reflections glazed with matt.
Provincial tag, intended slur,
but early buds showed renaissance,
light slowly passing into night,
serial time encapsulate.
So paint the seen and not the scene—
that is the space that needs the art—
as most find time for neither part.
Some private prayer externalised.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.
—Pablo Picasso
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine Ekphrastic work today!
—Cartoon Courtesy of Public Domain
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