Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Melissa Lemay in Poetics invites us to write an Ekphrastic poem selecting from a number of paintings (unidentified as yet) before revealing who the artist was and something about his career. Emil Nolde, it turns out, was an ardent Nazi who attempted to climb the ladder of art success at a time when the tide was turning against his expressionist style in favour of the insipid efforts to which all propaganda are likely to produce.
Melissa asks us whether, upon learning about Emil Nolde’s unpleasant politics, we feel differently about his art. I think a man’s politics are separate from his art unless he is using his art as propaganda and then as I say above, the quality will suffer because it doesn’t come from the heart. Nevertheless, I can think of people, still alive today, whose work and life I don’t want to support because their politics are abhorrent. Emil Nolde no longer needs our support and I feel no different about the work – only the man…
I kept seeing the kid in the parka at random times and in random places about the city but it was only when I went on a trip out of town and there was the kid standing on the train station platform opposite where I was awaiting my train home. I say a kid, but in truth I never really saw his face – lost in the halo of the fur around the hood. Was it even a he or a kid and not an old man – I just had an impression from the general build and demeanour. It was that time at the station that I knew the manifestation was mine alone – a spirit guide, if you will. There was a comfort then, in the vision, it salved my soul which let’s face it, in these end times needed salving…
Over at dVerse Poets Pub, sanaarizvi in Poetics, invites us to write about what love means to us in light of the upcoming Valentine’s Day… In my writing group, Deborah had the same idea and presented us with Love Like Salt by Lisel Mueller so this poem is written in the shadow of that one…
What price the truth, is truth now dead that leaders spout – thoughtlessly said unfiltered guff from mouths uncouth distract the people – the poorly led from what’s the real that will be rued is truth now dead, what price the truth…
A stanza of 6 lines – any number of stanzas permitted 8 syllables per line end rhyme scheme BbabaA (often written in iambic tetrameter.) L1 and L6 of each stanza is written in 2 hemistichs i.e the line split in two, with commas The 2 halves of L1 are inverted but repeated exactly as a refrain in L6. For example: L1 In winter’s cold, as moonlight beams L6 as moonlight beams, in winter’s cold.
N.B. The 2 halves of L1 contain and set the a and b rhymes thus: RRRA, RRRB xxxxxxxb xxxxxxxa xxxxxxxb xxxxxxxa RRRB, RRRA
There should clearly be a falcon on my outstretched gauntleted arm but alas I am just a convenient perch for pigeons.
I don’t even know why I am here They call me the Black Prince but my titles, Edward of Woodstock Prince of Wales and Duke of Cornwall give the City of Leeds no claim to my fame and famous I was in the Fourteenth Century A fierce and feared warrior on behalf of my father King Edward the Third though I died of dysentery before my king and father so never inherited the mantle…
Larger than life as a soldier I will say this representation In bronze doth suit me too large for any British foundry I was cast in Belgium brought by sea to Hull and sailed stately by barge up the river air to Leeds.
I have been joined in City Square by other statues, some with genuine claim to local fame John Harrison – cloth merchant and school founder Doctor Hook – a vicar of Leeds Joseph Priestley – chemist and theologian late of Leeds and James Watt though not of Leeds he did his fair share to increase its wealth with his steam engines I never saw one myself though the railway station is right before me but I saw the smoke and steam smelt the stink of the things and my plinth has to be navigated by commuters rushing to catch theirs
Statues of John Harrison, Doctor Hook, Joseph Priestly and James Watt – see Wikipedia article on Leeds City Square statuary.
I cannot see those good gentlemen ranged as they are behind me but I do look with some affection on the comely rears of eight naked nymphs I have sadly never had the pleasure of seeing their faces and the rest of their scarcely concealed modesty they are two lots of quadruplets named “Morn” – carrying a bunch of flowers And “Even” whose head droops And, I hear from passersby has her eyes closed in anticipation of the coming night
“Morn” and “Even” in City Square, Leeds – see Wikipedia article on Leeds City Square statuary.
It is a bleak existence in this civic space myself fully clad and armoured if not against the foes of England at least against the Northern cold but many’s the time I’ve seen poor Morn and Even and their six sisters shivering in the rain, the frost, the snow. One night a group of “knitting guerillas” as they mysteriously styled themselves surreptitiously reconnoitred the eight Art Nouveau sisters with a view to knitting dresses more becoming than their wisps of cloth for those benighted maids – they measured them up found them to be some two-thirds scale (I always thought them a little picayune) but never returned with the promised gowns and so the sisters shiver on in winter or garner both sly and envious glances from males and females respectively the former admiring the petite but fulsome figures the latter wishing they could be as unencumbered come the sweltering heat of a city summer – whilst I still suffer the indignity of pigeons…
The Black Prince – City Square Leeds – see Wikipedia article on Leeds City Square statuary.
Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Dora in Poetics invites us to Reimagine the Familiar with a wealth of prompt poems to inspire…
As I explainbelow in reply to the comment from Dora, I fictionalised the Guerilla Knitting Group but searching for them, I find that Knit a Bear Face did in fact yarn-bomb some of the above statues in an action called “Wating For Winter” – photos below… The group seems to be defuct – perhaps another casualty of the great Covid pause…
If you are stirred to action and wish to become a Yarn Bomber or even just a group with whom to knit – search the internet for a group near you… The Truth Yarn Is Out There…
I don’t want to live forever but I haven’t had my fill yet of seeing how things turn out…
I don’t agree with John Betjeman saying “I wish I had had more sex but I wish I may have many more connections…
I won’t know till it happens whether fear of the present and future or just plain tiredness will mark the point where I am ready to let go…
I know I would have more on my retrospective bucket list than many people, though others might have done still more but it’s never enough – I don’t want more money except to do more…
I don’t agree with Edith Piaf – I’ve done things I wish I hadn’t lost touch with people I shouldn’t have had questions I never thought to ask activities I never tried – heights, sights and strangers that will never now take my breath away, it’s too late for some things…
Artwork by Andrew Wilson using Midjourney – feel free to reproduce…
“The lamps are going out all over Europe, we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime” said British Foreign Secretary Earl Grey on the eve of the First World War which became a two-act drama with an interval – thirty-three years, lives lost in millions – upward of seventy-five… And now wars rage around the world again – Ukraine, Palestine, Sudan, and Myanmar to name a few, and Fascists reign in Russia, India, China, Hungary and Israel with further aspirant fascists waiting in the wings of the UK, France, Germany, and Italy. America has fallen in it’s own two part drama with interval, stage directions by Russia, technical directions by the Tech-bros… “where can we find light in this never-ending shade?*” Democrats must rebuild Democracy, their namesake, with acts of community and kindness from the grassroots up and relight the lamps…
“It needn’t be tinder, this juncture of the year” Conor O’Callaghan – January Drought
I – Hand-wringing…
Tinseltown they called it The Hollywood sign above it On mountain and canyons covered With scrub like gasoline tinder Rich palaces of dreams rendered To which many young locusts aspired But Santa Ana winds have burned Those houses to naught but ash Chimneys only gravestones to the cash Will Angelinos now have learned Money, for Nature is no match Challenge it and there’s a catch Will L.A. be a lesson to us all That Damocles’ sword’s about to fall…
II – Thunderbolt slinging…
“Come friendly bombs and rain on Slough” Quipped English Poet Laureate Enough with all this rational debate No one heeds “We the People” now Let Mar-a-Lago flooded be With Trump inside preferably Let insurance baulk at rebuilding The Palace-ades of rich and famous And let’s see what Trump really does When Global Warming’s truly a thing So unlike wise old King Canute The science is no longer moot And yes, for sure we all will suffer Till Nature trumps the monstrous duffer…
Andrew Wilson, 2025
Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Laura Bloomsbury in Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft invites us to write a Palinode in which two verses take contrary views and around a quotation relating to the New Year. I chose the Conor O’Callaghan one which seems almost prescient to the L.A. fires that are occurring so early in the New Year…
Meadow Argus / Photographed in Solomon Islands / Michael Sammut
Adornment to attract an amour Sets of eyes bigger than a bird’s belly To scare off avian appetites And what sex is this butterfly beauty Flamboyant female like those of our species Or Cock of the Walk like most birds do Or did a Creationist God get carried away With his paintbrush in an inspired moment…
