CHAGALL
He takes his Bella on a promenade,
holding her right hand, but she floats above
the houses, coloured green, the walled-in yard.
Has she just rocketed, fired up by love
and her pink, pointy shoes? Her mouth is set
whilst his is smiling. No, he's not off-guard
nor is she playing the age-old coquette.
The meaning's different now, no longer blurred:
she was in flight as he stood there, below.
Neat picnic ready, he caught his girl-bird
by force of tenderness, holding her so
his paint could capture joy, such bliss, and let
the viewer be pinned down by the absurd,
their wordless and surrealist duet.
["From Russia" exhibition RA 2008]
THE POET DECIDES TO SPRING CLEAN
Too many words: the wardrobes of his soul,
(heart, psyche, brain) are packed with synonyms,
so full that he can't find the right bon mot.
Old similes, thought up a year ago,
clutter his mind, mothballed, seeming to him
to interbreed in dusty cubby-holes.
They separate and mix like ancient socks,
as dull as cucumbers, no longer cool.
What can he do with fraying metaphors,
worn at the seams and fading out in drawers?
Limp adjectives hang in the vestibule;
he takes one down, reveals a paradox.
He needs the muddle to spin magic lines
and yet he's lost in excess. If he throws
this phrase away he might miss it next week.
His mystery lies in playing hide-and-seek:
from that dark, squirrelled mess a poem grows.
Look, in the corner, where a sentence shines.
To return to the Home Page click here
He takes his Bella on a promenade,
holding her right hand, but she floats above
the houses, coloured green, the walled-in yard.
Has she just rocketed, fired up by love
and her pink, pointy shoes? Her mouth is set
whilst his is smiling. No, he's not off-guard
nor is she playing the age-old coquette.
The meaning's different now, no longer blurred:
she was in flight as he stood there, below.
Neat picnic ready, he caught his girl-bird
by force of tenderness, holding her so
his paint could capture joy, such bliss, and let
the viewer be pinned down by the absurd,
their wordless and surrealist duet.
["From Russia" exhibition RA 2008]
THE POET DECIDES TO SPRING CLEAN
Too many words: the wardrobes of his soul,
(heart, psyche, brain) are packed with synonyms,
so full that he can't find the right bon mot.
Old similes, thought up a year ago,
clutter his mind, mothballed, seeming to him
to interbreed in dusty cubby-holes.
They separate and mix like ancient socks,
as dull as cucumbers, no longer cool.
What can he do with fraying metaphors,
worn at the seams and fading out in drawers?
Limp adjectives hang in the vestibule;
he takes one down, reveals a paradox.
He needs the muddle to spin magic lines
and yet he's lost in excess. If he throws
this phrase away he might miss it next week.
His mystery lies in playing hide-and-seek:
from that dark, squirrelled mess a poem grows.
Look, in the corner, where a sentence shines.
To return to the Home Page click here
