Imaginations
Ekphrasis - writing inspired by art. This is a blog for your creative responses to painted representational art. We will post paintings and some reactions on a regular basis. Get in touch if you'd like to contribute for us to post it on Imaginations.
Sunday, 18 September 2011
Until Then
Until Then.
The reason for her being in this hallway was lost.
Coffee made things little clearer; ‘cept to enhance
Dream tossed rehearsals from before it was light,
They’d kept her awake for much of the night.
What was knowledge, before she’d undressed, was no riposte
To sleep drained scenarios of what she might hear,
On dialling his number, of the words he might say:
Her well shaped truths were fast slipping away.
They’d hide in her memory, ‘mid shape-shifting shadows,
That weaved cloaks over all, penumbras of silence
Remaking her history hidden from sight -
It made no difference if she were right.
You see, she could not deny that, trapped in her mind
Was her recollection, a nostalgia so real
For the way (her brain said), the way they would play:
Remember that? How could he ever stray?
This obfustication made her wait before she’d ring.
Pinch the bridge of her nose say her lines half out loud,
Confrontation had never been her strong suit,
Again she doubted her grounds for dispute.
She stamped her foot in response, smiled at the petulance.
But assuring adrenalin flew through her veins
Made her reach for the handset, before too late,
O’ercoming her red-eyed, native restraint.
She conjured the number, his personal cabbala
Summoning him up in dry mouthed dread, then he said,
"Hello," and the rest of a neutral salute,
But his voice droned on over hers – the brute!
She blushed at her mistake; the answering machine clicked,
Its silent tape listening till she put it to death
A receiver to the heart of her old saint
The soundless message for her one time mate.
Adept at self deception her ego hid feelings
Protecting her from them by making her afresh,
With one ingredient less. Courage, it thought
Won’t be missed, she never does what she ought.
Then reflexes got the better, her hands reaching out,
Automatons dialling, she waited patiently.
All she remembered was ending with, "till then."
But she knew she’d not see herself again.
Friday, 16 September 2011
Poetry Noir
I have a poem on Poetry Noir:
Click here!
It links poetry to the moving image, something Paul and myself are interested in, especially film noir. For more on this front, keep tuned :)
Click here!
It links poetry to the moving image, something Paul and myself are interested in, especially film noir. For more on this front, keep tuned :)
Sunday, 14 August 2011
IMPress E-zine
We have some material included here at IMPresse-zine a publication that encompasses similar themes to this blog.
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Wings of Love
I’m released from the air into Jane’s arms,
Her infidel lover from the skies.
But a twisted desire boils in my blood,
It knows that I crave more than her charms,
I want to see her sad tears, eyes in flood,
And hear, once again, her wish, "This time, please stay."
As before, I’ll refuse, taking my thrill
From this denial and thoughts of our adieu.
More joy’s in knowing this is no vaudeville,
Her pleadings to me arise from real love:
Her love - that I choreograph to seem true -
While fetish sculpts pleasure out of my lies.
You think that’s bad? Though just arrived, I can’t wait
For her parting sobs on the way to the gate.
Her infidel lover from the skies.
But a twisted desire boils in my blood,
It knows that I crave more than her charms,
I want to see her sad tears, eyes in flood,
And hear, once again, her wish, "This time, please stay."
As before, I’ll refuse, taking my thrill
From this denial and thoughts of our adieu.
More joy’s in knowing this is no vaudeville,
Her pleadings to me arise from real love:
Her love - that I choreograph to seem true -
While fetish sculpts pleasure out of my lies.
You think that’s bad? Though just arrived, I can’t wait
For her parting sobs on the way to the gate.
Friday, 22 July 2011
Mistress-at-Arms

For years she had been a pastime for him,
Arousing sin mechanically,
By the feel of her hair, the touch of her skin:
Yet he scarcely recalled her middle name.
Perhaps it was a male thing, the cold fire
That turned emotions into lies, deceiving
Long enough that, in the meeting of their eyes
The future was pre-signified, foretold
As he’d prophesised: hadn’t she agreed?
We will always be this way, always sort-of today
Echoed simulacra, sating desires
Until just now: she’d embraced him, breathing dreams,
Transcending time: weaker men would cry.
He checked. She’d ten seconds, till he’d fly.
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
Seaside Delight

Here is my latest tribute to the 1970s. It's part of a developing theme of delving into the memories of those long gone days. I'm particularly interested in capturing something of the fashions and the broader cultural environment, all entwined with memories of that period.
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