Poetry and Prose
Front cover Image: Beauty and the Beast. Analogue silver print. Alan Smith
Published by Platform, August 2013 to coincide with the exhibition ‘Poetry and Prose’ The Coffee Stop Cafe, St Mary’s Market St Helens
Some of the paintings, drawings and collages in this show tell unfamilliar stories. What is the figure in that work thinking? What story does the image tell of the artist’s life? Other works feature writing and artwork by the same artist. Patricia Sephton includes poems as part of her textile works and Phill Campbell’s collages depict characters and locations in his recently published sci-fi novel. Many of the artworks in the exhibition have been inspired by the poetry of others including classical writers such as Lord Byron, William Wordsworth or E. Nesbit through to more contemporary poets such as Amy Clampitt and David St. John, which we have included at the end of this book to help you understand the artists’ influences. Taking the words that flow from the writer’s pen, the artists have illustrated the images and emotions that the texts conjure up for them.
Poetry and Prose
A picture paints a thousand words, and in the case of the Poetry and Prose exhibition at the Coffee Stop Cafe in St Mary’s Market, words have inspired the artworks on display. Creative people have always used a range of ways to express themselves, often being skilled in more than one area, and this exhibition goes to prove that the artists involved are a talented lot as they use the visual and the written with equal skill. This book has been published to accompany the exhibition and contains both original poetry, writing related to the art works on show and poems by reknowned and published authors.
She was treading on a familiar track, She’d walked way back in school, Where they called it; ‘needlework’, But there’d been a change of rule. Embroideries of the present day, Display embellishment, and crinkles, And like her-self, can show - trapunto, Lines, and wrinkles. She researched all the mixed, And the multi, of the media, Which left her in need of, The English encyclopedia! She got tangled in the World Wide Web, She had a good trawl through, She found ‘modern’ types of textiles are, What was old – is new! Deconstruction, reconstruction, Altered image montage, Bits of this, bits of that Voila! A modern collage! She found it such a challenge Then thought; “A collage! I could do, but I haven’t done a ‘collage’ since I was twenty-two”. A collage? Now it isn’t, She’d changed her mind again, She couldn’t decide what to do, With her length of skein. She waited for inspiration, Her guide, on what to do, “YES! ‘A Tiny Textile Book’, I’ll make, based on bark, with tattered bits in blue”.
Image: (Detail) The Ubiquitous plastic bag. Patricia Sephton
Patricia Sephton
Mixed up media
She’ll not wonder what to do again, She’ll await her creative urge, She’ll ponder on ‘development’, Then have a mighty splurge. But then again, it might not work, She might not get the time, She might be better sticking to, Making something rhyme!
When I reached my teens My head full of dreams Of beauty and grace and dresses of lace I first saw my “Ivanhoe” I’d see him each day Going to school my way He was handsome and charming His smile so disarming I was in Paradise From a distance I watched My heart was soon quashed He never noticed me Though it was plain to see how I worshipped him In dreams we’d hold hands We both looked so grand He’d smile at me And we would be free Like two birds we’d just fly away
Elizabeth Culley
My First Crush
Elizabeth Culley
As I grew older I longed to be bolder Tell him of my devotion But too full of emotion I let me chance pass by One day I saw A girl’s hand he bore She wasn’t so shy Laughing they passed by I was blown away My dreams came crashing Like flashes of lightning Jealous and sad I felt so bad What did I do wrong? Time took me away from down that way I forgot my experience Till with my heart I did part to my true love of many years.
A limerick Two young ladies of consequence arrived for tea and eloquence said the scones were divine and the settee sublime then promptly lost their intelligence
And the deep, silver mist Like gauze And spider’s web, holds fast Catching the light Until its tenuous hold is brushed away In fright Pre-dawn quiet before The raucous sounds of earth Stir And the relentless intrusion Fills the air with dirt Pent like a vacuum until Released And then breathes Then afloat The scent rising and sensuous All seems possible Caressed and bathed in Precious light Enfolded, warm And the dew on the grass perfumed air And the pitter- patter of tears Falling gently Reflecting in pools Broken by footsteps, swishing Cracking the mirrors in ripples Moonlight caresses the lovers ‘ meeting Rain soft and gentle, A mantle, A covering blanket, A dark, suffused with tiny pinpricks Of night And moments of bliss Taken away by light
Frances Heyes
A Perfumed Air
Patricia Sephton
The Textile Lush She tried to play a guitar, But she couldn’t read the score, She couldn’t even play a chord, And her fingertips got sore. She had a bash at oil paints But for her art, there was no call, She was better with a paint tray, A roller, and a wall. She tried her hand at floral art, But the pollen made her sneeze, And the perfume from her petunias, Made her old man wheeze. She wasn’t bad at baking, But found it quite a bore, Her family just consumed the lot. To bake was just a chore. But what she was really good at Was something she always did, She’d been knitting and been sewing, Since she was a kid. She’ll mooch for hours in fabric stores, Where the floors are full of fluff, She’ll rout through all the offcut bins, In search of ‘special’ stuff. She’ll find some tempting textiles, Peep in her purse to part with cash, Then homeward she will scuttle, To add more stuff to her stash. She lives her world in textiles, But who could this lass be? Now it is confession time, The textile lush is me!
Jacqui Priestley
The sea & me I saw the sea looking longingly at the dark clouds passing by. I saw the sea rising high her tides desperate to touch the moon. I saw the sea and she saw me standing here. I felt the sea In my soul and she drew me ever near.
Seeing
I am fire watching, finding the faces smiling, frowning, crackling in the heat of flames. And in the forest, field and glen nodding heads with nature, In kingdoms small and sweet smelling. Always seeking to find beauty in the mundane, the abstract in reality and joy in looking beyond seeing.
Image: (Detail) Pebble and glass. Jacqui Priestley
I am cloud gazing, searching for imagined places waiting in the space beyond the horizon.
Phill Campbell
An extract from the novel ‘Death Song’ Hyssilda was finding it increasingly difficult to find ways of leaving the city unobserved. Although she employed a variety of different escape routes, Hssora had managed to track all but one of them down and had posted guards to patrol them. By the time she emerged into open water it was fully dark, but the motes of moonlight that sifted down from the shallows, augmented by the drifting clouds of luminous plankton, provided enough illumination for her to see by. Beneath her lay the submarine continent of Telenna, its dark, undulating landscape sprinkled with a thousand points of red fire. The plateau was riddled with fire-vents connected to the volcanic arteries that ran beneath its surface. Some of these were natural, while others had been tunnelled by the merrows to provide the heat they required to remain active and alert. Without warmth, they soon grew torpid. Above the city towered the gigantic fortress of Mergard, the spike of its topmost turret reaching up as if to impale the moon. The plateau with its water-vales and sea-mounts, was familiar territory to her. She longed to explore further – not outwards, but upwards. Hyssilda had never been to the surface; her guardians had forbidden it. But if she did not escape from Mergard soon, she would be imprisoned in a life of meaningless ritual, and tonight could be her last taste of freedom. Using every scrap of cover she could find, Hyssilda edged her way out of the sprawl of dwellings that surrounded Mergard. Vast numbers of merrows rode the network of thermal currents high above the city, resembling dark clouds moving with intelligent purpose. Hyssilda kept low, beyond the reach of their night-piercing eyes. She froze as an adult female exited a dwelling on her right and rose through the water to join the throng above. There were many females among them, for the days of the Holdings, when a male’s status was determined by the number of breeding females he possessed, were long gone. Sexual equality was now the norm, although Hyssilda had noted a tendency towards increased dominance in the females’ behaviour, while the males had become generally less war-like and aggressive. She had heard tales of how the seers were once forced to live as outcasts, their gifts rejected by the leaders of those days. But that way of life had gone forever.
Image: Hyssilda. Collage on board. Phill Campbell
Phill Campbell
She left the city behind and coasted low over the submarine landscape. Apart from the risk of discovery, there were few dangers this close to Mergard. In the open water, it was a different matter. Swarms of cutterfish and scavenging death-maws rose from the Abyss at night, searching for food, and a single, unarmed merrow would provide an easy meal. She sought shelter in one of the kelp-forests, taking advantage of the cover it provided to travel swiftly. The further she went from the city, the less populated the water became. The forest took her almost to the edge of the plateau where she paused, treading water cautiously and concealing herself behind a thick stalk of weed. The nearby stems appeared to her a dull maroon, interspersed with a haze of luminous particles. She had never been so far before. The sensory cells on her skin registered the drop in temperature from the cold current that welled up from the Abyss. No shelter existed out there, but it was the only way to escape from Mergard. As she regarded the open water, she registered a faint mental signal. Its nature was unknown to her, and its location must be extremely distant. Puzzled and intrigued, Hyssilda masked the sensory input from her surroundings and focused on the source of the signal. It grew marginally stronger, and for some reason she had the impression that it had only recently been activated. Its nature was baffling, but at least she could determine which direction it came from. A wave of pressure struck her from behind, and the shock broke the tentative mental link. She had been so intent on the signal that she had failed to notice the approach of danger. Berating herself for her own folly, Hyssilda spun round to face a party of armed warriors from Mergard. Hssora must have located her remaining escape-route and sent them after her. Only the most aggressive males were conscripted into the army, and Hyssilda was confronted by three giant warriors who might have originated from an earlier age. She noted their coral daggers and the hunting spears slung across their backs, and cold fury mounted within her. The warriors loomed menacingly towards her, confident in their size and strength. She recognised them as throwbacks
Phill Campbell
to a more primitive type, and realised that their attitude towards females would be similarly undeveloped. They signalled to her that she should return to Mergard, but she refused, adding the hand-gesture that confirmed her status as a seer. They ignored her and continued to advance; believing that fear of the unknown would prevent her from taking to the open water. She reached into their minds and implanted a single command: Coldness! There was no resistance to her will, and the psychosomatic response was immediate. Their bodies began to shut down, and moments later they were disabled and adrift, their weapons sliding unheeded from their grasp. Merrows had the capacity to store internal warmth for long periods, but their total obedience to her command prevented them from using it. Hyssilda turned away, dismissing them from her thoughts. She was now faced with the most important decision of her life. If she returned to Mergard she might never have another opportunity to escape, and the leaders might find a way to bend her to their will. But she had never thought beyond the idea of escape; she had made no plans; she was unprepared. But was she? Seers were trained to be independent of weapons and possessions – trained to depend solely on their inner resources. Perhaps she already had all she needed. But where should she go? She knew nothing beyond her life in Mergard, and now she fully realised how much information Hssora had withheld from her. She did not even know which direction to take. As she hesitated she remembered the unfamiliar signal and realised that its location was firmly fixed in her mind. The recollection instantly resolved her inner conflict. She would follow the signal to its source and see where it led her. With powerful strokes of her webbed claws, Hyssilda launched herself from the edge of the plateau and headed out into open water above the Abyss.
Poems that inspired the artists
THE silver birch is a dainty lady, She wears a satin gown; The elm tree makes the old churchyard shady, She will not live in town. The English oak is a sturdy fellow, He gets his green coat late; The willow is smart in a suit of yellow, While brown the beech trees wait. Such a gay green gown God gives the larches As green as He is good! The hazels hold up their arms for arches When Spring rides through the wood. The chestnut’s proud, and the lilac’s pretty, The poplar’s gentle and tall, But the plane tree’s kind to the poor dull city love him best of all!
Inspiration for Philip Wilkinson’s painting ‘Spring Wood’
E. Nesbit
Child’s Song In Spring
David St. John
The Shore (excerpt) So the tide forgets, as morning grows too far delivered, as the bowls of rock and wood run dry. What is left seems pearled and lit, as those cases of the museum stood lit with milk jade, rows of opaque vases streaked with orange and yellow smoke. You found a lavender boat, a single figure poling upstream, baskets of pale fish wedged between his legs. Today, the debris of winter stands stacked against the walls, the coils of kelp lie scattered across the floor. The oil fire smokes. You turn down the lantern hung on its nail. Outside, the boats aligned like sentinels. Here beside the blue depot, walking the pier, you can see the way Inspiration for Jacqui Priestley’s painting ‘Pebble & Glass’
Amy Clampitt
Beach Glass While you walk at the water’s edge, turning over concepts I can’t envision, the honking buoy serves notice that at any time the wind may change. The reef bell clatters its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra to any note but warning. The ocean, cumbered by no business more urgent than keeping open old accounts that never balanced, goes on shuffling its millenniums of quartz, granite and basalt. Inspiration for Jacqui Priestley’s painting ‘Line in the sand’
Lord Byron
She Walks in Beauty She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
Inspiration for Sylvia Kendrick’s drawing ‘She walks in beauty’
Image: (Detail) She walks in beauty. Sylvia Kendrick
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. “To-night will be a stormy night You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow.” “That, Father! will I gladly do: ‘Tis scarcely afternoonThe minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!” At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;--and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town.
Image: (Detail) Lucy Gray (Solitude). Philip Wilkinson
William Wordsworth
Lucy Gray [or Solitude]
At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept and, turning homeward, cried, “In heaven we all shall meet;” When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy’s feet. Then downwards from the steep hill’s edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. O’er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.
Inspiration for Philip Wilkinson’s painting ‘Lucy Gray (Solitude)’
William Wordsworth
The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.