#2331 - last dragon

 

2331

7.138

19.v.26

last dragon

ekphrastic for Edward Coley Burne-Jones’ ‘1866 ‘The Fight: St George kills the dragon V’

 

this isn’t for anyone’s dinner

 

there is a surgical precision to it

as if it were a violence rehearsed

 

the bloody cape already dry – a prop

as we to watch

all eyes intent

 

and oh the fearful clasping of hands

blood sun already set

 

just a little dragon, this last one

quite harmless really

lost from tribe

 

and that there’s your mythology

 

jousting pole snapped off

 

could almost lick, this loving 

trusting dragon pup

 

with platypus webbing

teeth unintended

 

one admires the painter’s skill to remind us

you will need armour for this 

#2330 - try this at home

 

2330

7.137

18.v.26

try this at home

ekphrastic for Sydney Long’s 1898 ‘Pan’

 

even the trees are here for a frolic

 

join hands and who knows?

 

outdoors in as you’ll imagine

nor any sign of toil

 

scratch head

eye pipe

be all ears

 

shaggy in the leg

show secondary features

 

it’s the kind of tune sticks in your head

 

see it on a wall

 

note

beard is a pointed thing 

#2329 -- no one's death lasts long

 

2329

7.136

17.v.26

no one’s death last long

ekphrastic for Briton Rivière’s 1888 ‘Requiescat’

 

lie very still

leaves fall

 

it’s after life the armour shines

 

who’s a good boy?

where’s a next treat?

 

eyes bright

to point wet nose

 

the paint’s still cracking now 

#2328 - dearly beloved

 

2328

7.135

16.v.26

dearly beloved

self-ekphrastic for an untitled work in MY FIRST FOREST OF WORDS

 

 

these are journey words rehearsed

 

for deeper woods to come

 

just one page

of the walk-in book

 

follow a smudge

just a scratch

something tears

into – is it a line? a shape?

is it a lie to tell?

 

brings to the place words become unbecome

 

somewhere the rain, so a hat

 

someone has to be alien landing

 

we’ve run out of excuse

 

a dayfold nothing settles

 

a nesting thing

funnel up

 

see where this all was thrown

 

you can count the dimensions

 

the dark is a door

 

these are voices of elsewhere

 

here’s depth to the page we fall in

 

to picture is to deface the real

 

will it sing?

 

that’s to pour forth, prank it

 

count and lose count

 

an arrow shapes the fire

 

can I have pictured all this nothing?

may I?   is it?

 

thing facing

happen to  

on the wall lain flat

 

anticipated in the

much call moment

 

it’s aphoristic

 

that’s a crouch to pounce

butterslip, join the dots

 

I am drawn to a work to finish

take my pencil to it  

 

because I was asked if I did

 

call it ‘Addled Scone Stroll’

call it ‘untitled’

 

go back and add a bit more

 

in the picnic woods

 

 come whichever way should take

 

and welcome

this is my country

you’re very welcome here

#2327 -- day as grey as

 

2327

7.134

15.v.26

day as grey as

ekphrastic for Margaret Breindel’s 1962 ‘The Chorus’

 

square slots

all hearts held in

 

sometimes arms fall by the side

 

death is a cloak and holding

 

there’s no ground to stand on

there’s nothing for the air

 

more eyes than wide

with what-for-horror

grime

 

you could not call survivors

 

there’s all of this singing for fear 

MY FIRST FOREST OF WORDS is up!

 

the hanging crew!   much thanks to whom!