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A painting is selected from a professional artist belonging to www.creativecoverage.co.uk.
Contributors are invited to submit a poem up to 30 lines or a story up to 500 words (as a Word .doc file) about the painting. The submissions are initially published on this website and then in a book. Please email submissions (with the date of the prompt in the subject bar) to [email protected] Launched in 2022, the first year's challenge is now available as a book: A year of writing prompts. Read it to get a good idea of how to tackle this. |
Parisienne Rooftops by Tom Cotcher
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
Parisienne Rooftops- or is it
by Don Magee
Leanne tilted her head slightly sideways, gazed for several minutes, turned to Simon and stated, ‘The painting, it invites you to walk in…. to stand, view the rooftops, join the artist in his moment….’
Simon did not tilt his head, he looked with slight bemusement, ‘So where is the door to enter?’
She turned, irritated at his crass statement, ‘Are you just being obtuse, facetious, or are you in your village idiot phase?… I did not mean enter literally but figuratively (this was followed by an expletive that the reader can supply).
‘So why are there no people in the room…. also what is there to say it’s Paris… all I can see is a window with a few house tops… it could be anywhere. And to answer your question I’m probably a bit of all your accusations. Well at least it’s not abstract…’
She cut him off, ‘In your opinion then paintings should have people in them… stupid assertion that it is…. as for the rest use your imagination… yes I know you find that difficult.’
He responded, ‘If you want the viewer to enter into the… well that paintings world then surely someone should figure in the welcome otherwise what’s the point?’
By now he was smiling as she turned towards him, and she realised that he was using humour to wind her up. ‘You are such a nirritating pillock… you are realism without any direction.. I know I’m not making sense…’ She started to laugh, ‘OK so now you want me to write a poem to compliment the
painting, or describe what I see in it?’
He moved quickly backwards, ‘I don’t care what you do but do not throw another Pot Noodle at me like when I criticised that weird abstract painting…. you must admit this rooftop has far more viewable meaning than colour splurges on canvas that could be anything from a blood bath to.. who knows’ This was when he realised that he should shut up as he saw her hands on her hips, a prelude to something he did not want to experience.
If there’s a moral to this interlude story then I’m sure the reader will have their own but my thought is you could do well to apply a meta perspective to another’s thinking otherwise verbal chaos ensues.
Thoughts on a Paris rooftop
When in the silence of solitary thoughts
far from the clamour of current stress
as temperance moves the mental mist,
I sit on the balcony in Paris
gaze at the painting that beckons me
to reflect that sun kissed room.
And the beauty of contemplative silence
is it brings a solace to the mind's blur
of living pressure, of others' thoughts
for the joy in sitting in that painting's room
I’m mindful of the sage old words
be grateful for what you have.
Don Magee
A room with a view
by Garry Davidson
Claude was born and raised in Paris, a city he simply adored. As a child he loved drawing and painting and developed this during his teenage years. He was talented enough to gain a place at the coveted Les Beaux-Arts de Paris school and did very well there. He dreamt about living in Paris and being a full-time artist. He recognised his talent but was very tough on himself, his own biggest critic. He said he would be happy just spending all his time painting and having the Paris landmarks close to hand. Convincing himself he would never be rich he would be satisfied making just enough money to make ends meet. Whilst he was at Art School he met Josephine, a young lady who was to become his sweetheart and eventually his wife. She too was a talented artist but also riddled with self-doubt. Fortunately, her expectations were in line with Claude’s so there would be no pressure either way.
Claude benefited from an inheritance when his uncle died. This was enough to buy a comfortable apartment on the third floor of an old, converted house in the centre of Paris. There was a good-sized spare room which was perfect as a studio for them. Most importantly for Claude there was a large window looking out over the city. He couldn’t want for more.
The couple settled in and were very comfortable. Claude had a daily morning ritual whereby he would make coffee and take this into the studio and stand at the window in silence looking out over the city. This provided his inspiration for the day and lasted for about half an hour.
One day Josephine suggested Claude should paint the view from the window as if they ever moved away, he would be able to take it with him. He thought about it for a while but concluded he wouldn’t be able to do it justice, furthermore he would never move away!
Josephine chipped away at him and eventually he gave in and agreed. He dabbled but was never satisfied and only got as far as an outline drawing of the view. He began to wish he had never taken on the task. Then sadly Claude contracted pneumonia and after a long battle, passed away.
Josephine was distraught. She stood by the door of the studio every morning and could see Claude standing there peering out of the window. She found this too upsetting and decided she must move away, Claude would understand she thought.
Before she did so she decided she would paint the studio setting as a memory of their time together there. The studio hadn’t been touched since Claude had died. That painting now hangs on the wall of her bedroom in the beach house in which she lives in Normandy. To this day she still spends time each morning looking at it in silence whilst sipping her coffee. Such fond memories.
Pierre and the phantom thief
by Laura Sanders
He realised he had heard someone creeping about outside.
"Mon dieu," he uttered, rubbing his face and wiping his spectacles. Pierre left his painting, so absorbed was he painting in the style of artist Cezanne, that he hadn't heard the infamous, notorious "phantom thief" trying to enter his abode via the window!
Pierre shouted, "Que est ce que tu fais?!! What are you doing?"
The phantom thief was outside the window, clinging to an outside ledge.
Pierre clambered out and both were clinging to a gutter above the Parisian rooftops. They could see for miles the Moulin Rouge, the Eiffel Tower, Montmartre, mixed in with the coloured roof gables and pretty green shutters.
Below, screams echoed and quite a crowd had collected looking up and pointing to Pierre and the phantom thief, who was dressed in a white cape.
"I want your paintings zey are famous anz worth a lot of money!!" As he said so, he suddenly lost his footing, and a gasp from the crowd wafted up. Below two Gendarmes hastily jostled the crowd to get a better look. The thief known as "phantom Phil", responsible for stealing great works of art, suddenly over balanced and plummeted quickly to his death.
The mess below reflected Pierre's paint palette inside his boudoir. Messy and overdone.
by Don Magee
Leanne tilted her head slightly sideways, gazed for several minutes, turned to Simon and stated, ‘The painting, it invites you to walk in…. to stand, view the rooftops, join the artist in his moment….’
Simon did not tilt his head, he looked with slight bemusement, ‘So where is the door to enter?’
She turned, irritated at his crass statement, ‘Are you just being obtuse, facetious, or are you in your village idiot phase?… I did not mean enter literally but figuratively (this was followed by an expletive that the reader can supply).
‘So why are there no people in the room…. also what is there to say it’s Paris… all I can see is a window with a few house tops… it could be anywhere. And to answer your question I’m probably a bit of all your accusations. Well at least it’s not abstract…’
She cut him off, ‘In your opinion then paintings should have people in them… stupid assertion that it is…. as for the rest use your imagination… yes I know you find that difficult.’
He responded, ‘If you want the viewer to enter into the… well that paintings world then surely someone should figure in the welcome otherwise what’s the point?’
By now he was smiling as she turned towards him, and she realised that he was using humour to wind her up. ‘You are such a nirritating pillock… you are realism without any direction.. I know I’m not making sense…’ She started to laugh, ‘OK so now you want me to write a poem to compliment the
painting, or describe what I see in it?’
He moved quickly backwards, ‘I don’t care what you do but do not throw another Pot Noodle at me like when I criticised that weird abstract painting…. you must admit this rooftop has far more viewable meaning than colour splurges on canvas that could be anything from a blood bath to.. who knows’ This was when he realised that he should shut up as he saw her hands on her hips, a prelude to something he did not want to experience.
If there’s a moral to this interlude story then I’m sure the reader will have their own but my thought is you could do well to apply a meta perspective to another’s thinking otherwise verbal chaos ensues.
Thoughts on a Paris rooftop
When in the silence of solitary thoughts
far from the clamour of current stress
as temperance moves the mental mist,
I sit on the balcony in Paris
gaze at the painting that beckons me
to reflect that sun kissed room.
And the beauty of contemplative silence
is it brings a solace to the mind's blur
of living pressure, of others' thoughts
for the joy in sitting in that painting's room
I’m mindful of the sage old words
be grateful for what you have.
Don Magee
A room with a view
by Garry Davidson
Claude was born and raised in Paris, a city he simply adored. As a child he loved drawing and painting and developed this during his teenage years. He was talented enough to gain a place at the coveted Les Beaux-Arts de Paris school and did very well there. He dreamt about living in Paris and being a full-time artist. He recognised his talent but was very tough on himself, his own biggest critic. He said he would be happy just spending all his time painting and having the Paris landmarks close to hand. Convincing himself he would never be rich he would be satisfied making just enough money to make ends meet. Whilst he was at Art School he met Josephine, a young lady who was to become his sweetheart and eventually his wife. She too was a talented artist but also riddled with self-doubt. Fortunately, her expectations were in line with Claude’s so there would be no pressure either way.
Claude benefited from an inheritance when his uncle died. This was enough to buy a comfortable apartment on the third floor of an old, converted house in the centre of Paris. There was a good-sized spare room which was perfect as a studio for them. Most importantly for Claude there was a large window looking out over the city. He couldn’t want for more.
The couple settled in and were very comfortable. Claude had a daily morning ritual whereby he would make coffee and take this into the studio and stand at the window in silence looking out over the city. This provided his inspiration for the day and lasted for about half an hour.
One day Josephine suggested Claude should paint the view from the window as if they ever moved away, he would be able to take it with him. He thought about it for a while but concluded he wouldn’t be able to do it justice, furthermore he would never move away!
Josephine chipped away at him and eventually he gave in and agreed. He dabbled but was never satisfied and only got as far as an outline drawing of the view. He began to wish he had never taken on the task. Then sadly Claude contracted pneumonia and after a long battle, passed away.
Josephine was distraught. She stood by the door of the studio every morning and could see Claude standing there peering out of the window. She found this too upsetting and decided she must move away, Claude would understand she thought.
Before she did so she decided she would paint the studio setting as a memory of their time together there. The studio hadn’t been touched since Claude had died. That painting now hangs on the wall of her bedroom in the beach house in which she lives in Normandy. To this day she still spends time each morning looking at it in silence whilst sipping her coffee. Such fond memories.
Pierre and the phantom thief
by Laura Sanders
He realised he had heard someone creeping about outside.
"Mon dieu," he uttered, rubbing his face and wiping his spectacles. Pierre left his painting, so absorbed was he painting in the style of artist Cezanne, that he hadn't heard the infamous, notorious "phantom thief" trying to enter his abode via the window!
Pierre shouted, "Que est ce que tu fais?!! What are you doing?"
The phantom thief was outside the window, clinging to an outside ledge.
Pierre clambered out and both were clinging to a gutter above the Parisian rooftops. They could see for miles the Moulin Rouge, the Eiffel Tower, Montmartre, mixed in with the coloured roof gables and pretty green shutters.
Below, screams echoed and quite a crowd had collected looking up and pointing to Pierre and the phantom thief, who was dressed in a white cape.
"I want your paintings zey are famous anz worth a lot of money!!" As he said so, he suddenly lost his footing, and a gasp from the crowd wafted up. Below two Gendarmes hastily jostled the crowd to get a better look. The thief known as "phantom Phil", responsible for stealing great works of art, suddenly over balanced and plummeted quickly to his death.
The mess below reflected Pierre's paint palette inside his boudoir. Messy and overdone.
Abstract Art – or is it?
by Don Magee
Leanne was an ‘art historian’, sometimes also referred to as an art curator (no idea what the difference was but who am I to question?), which puzzles me in that what does an art historian do? And how do they make a living from it given today’s commercial needs and a fixed income? Also who employs such a person? Albeit Leanne was employed, she would not say exactly by whom, although she volunteered, she wrote multiple articles, and historical pamphlets for the ‘by whom’, I suspect a museum. But what do I know? This is her story.
‘I like abstract art… the abstractness of what you are looking at, the meaning….. well if there is one, the personal interpretation of perception, view, colour… am I boring you?’
Leanne shot her gaze between her partner Simon, and the painting before her. Now there are some topics he avoided, especially abstract art; it was like woodwork you ended up with splinters in your fingers. Stupidly, he had asked her what she was looking at without realising it was a painting.
‘The article you are writing, ‘the abstractness of abstract art… is abstractness a real word… and what the point anyway?’ he intoned before she interrupted.
Leanne was on a roll. ‘Look normality in art is an object… take Van Gogh’s sun flowers, yes we know what they are, everyone does… then there’s that painting of Monet’s water lilies.. we all have the same view of what they are. Well abstract art is so individualistic in that it has no generalised meaning other than what it says to the individual.’
‘Have you been reading an art review, or something? And why am I looking at a colourful cacophony of God knows what? I like paintings that have a recognisable…’ he stopped because he was having difficulty in explaining ‘recognisable’ to someone who would tear his interpretation to bits. Leanne did no such thing (this was worrying for him at least), she continued looking at the painting with a bemused, yet anticipatory demeanour, her eyes locked onto something that only she could explain.
Now I expect most readers have experienced the dichotomy of different views and perceptions held by close family and friends. Simon was no different as he commented, ‘There’s a lot of red in it…. why don’t you write a poem on, or about red images?’
Leanne looked up, smiled and replied, ‘You see blood type chaos…. I see deepened sunsets in violent colours… and that’s good that we perceive differently.’
She slightly stroked her mouth, ‘Yes a poem on colour images..’
Simon jumped straight in, ‘Please… please don’t bring in that phrase ‘’the multitudinous seas incarnadine’’ again… it’s not yours to bring in. Nope, a poem it is, original thought with a red theme.’
Now the thing with throwing something at someone as part of friendly but irritated banter is you need a steady hand and direction. Leanne threw a carton at Simon. He ducked (he didn’t need to), yelped and cried out in complete astonishment, ‘You have just thrown a bloody Pot Noodle at me… you're crazy… you're…’ He deduced there is no word for a female poet, neurotic, and all the other ‘otic’ descriptions that exist. Yet he was smiling as she pulled out a pen and started to write.
Art becomes me.
I cannot explain the analysis view
or offer an answer to that question
that sits in silence as I trouble my eyes
in scarlet streams beneath a tranquil sky
in the confusion of an abstract moment.
I see, oh how I see the sky mounted
above the red flush land, or is it so
my view may change in an abstract way
depending on the time, the place, and day
for such is art, where have I heard?
That intoned as an answer to a question
not asked, or even bent in reflection.
To me it’s a sunset in fire-spilled anger,
or a reluctant sky yet in surrender
to a night and the angles of shade and dark.
And I sit those green grass verges where
a peace draws close, and thus I stare
for a silence beckons, an abstract strong
of recognised content where I belong
in the cacophonous colours of a summer's day
and the pause, the wait until tomorrows
breath returns in a balm like awakening
and thus the cycle begins.
Killer
Scarlet billows,
languid water
seasoned swimmer
for the slaughter!
Killer fish,
monster of sea,
serrated teeth
slices easily.
Shallow lagoon
takes wrong turn,
blue turns red,
paradise burns.
Leaves behind
a trailer of fear.
Swimmer and fish
disappear.....
Laura Sanders
by Don Magee
Leanne was an ‘art historian’, sometimes also referred to as an art curator (no idea what the difference was but who am I to question?), which puzzles me in that what does an art historian do? And how do they make a living from it given today’s commercial needs and a fixed income? Also who employs such a person? Albeit Leanne was employed, she would not say exactly by whom, although she volunteered, she wrote multiple articles, and historical pamphlets for the ‘by whom’, I suspect a museum. But what do I know? This is her story.
‘I like abstract art… the abstractness of what you are looking at, the meaning….. well if there is one, the personal interpretation of perception, view, colour… am I boring you?’
Leanne shot her gaze between her partner Simon, and the painting before her. Now there are some topics he avoided, especially abstract art; it was like woodwork you ended up with splinters in your fingers. Stupidly, he had asked her what she was looking at without realising it was a painting.
‘The article you are writing, ‘the abstractness of abstract art… is abstractness a real word… and what the point anyway?’ he intoned before she interrupted.
Leanne was on a roll. ‘Look normality in art is an object… take Van Gogh’s sun flowers, yes we know what they are, everyone does… then there’s that painting of Monet’s water lilies.. we all have the same view of what they are. Well abstract art is so individualistic in that it has no generalised meaning other than what it says to the individual.’
‘Have you been reading an art review, or something? And why am I looking at a colourful cacophony of God knows what? I like paintings that have a recognisable…’ he stopped because he was having difficulty in explaining ‘recognisable’ to someone who would tear his interpretation to bits. Leanne did no such thing (this was worrying for him at least), she continued looking at the painting with a bemused, yet anticipatory demeanour, her eyes locked onto something that only she could explain.
Now I expect most readers have experienced the dichotomy of different views and perceptions held by close family and friends. Simon was no different as he commented, ‘There’s a lot of red in it…. why don’t you write a poem on, or about red images?’
Leanne looked up, smiled and replied, ‘You see blood type chaos…. I see deepened sunsets in violent colours… and that’s good that we perceive differently.’
She slightly stroked her mouth, ‘Yes a poem on colour images..’
Simon jumped straight in, ‘Please… please don’t bring in that phrase ‘’the multitudinous seas incarnadine’’ again… it’s not yours to bring in. Nope, a poem it is, original thought with a red theme.’
Now the thing with throwing something at someone as part of friendly but irritated banter is you need a steady hand and direction. Leanne threw a carton at Simon. He ducked (he didn’t need to), yelped and cried out in complete astonishment, ‘You have just thrown a bloody Pot Noodle at me… you're crazy… you're…’ He deduced there is no word for a female poet, neurotic, and all the other ‘otic’ descriptions that exist. Yet he was smiling as she pulled out a pen and started to write.
Art becomes me.
I cannot explain the analysis view
or offer an answer to that question
that sits in silence as I trouble my eyes
in scarlet streams beneath a tranquil sky
in the confusion of an abstract moment.
I see, oh how I see the sky mounted
above the red flush land, or is it so
my view may change in an abstract way
depending on the time, the place, and day
for such is art, where have I heard?
That intoned as an answer to a question
not asked, or even bent in reflection.
To me it’s a sunset in fire-spilled anger,
or a reluctant sky yet in surrender
to a night and the angles of shade and dark.
And I sit those green grass verges where
a peace draws close, and thus I stare
for a silence beckons, an abstract strong
of recognised content where I belong
in the cacophonous colours of a summer's day
and the pause, the wait until tomorrows
breath returns in a balm like awakening
and thus the cycle begins.
Killer
Scarlet billows,
languid water
seasoned swimmer
for the slaughter!
Killer fish,
monster of sea,
serrated teeth
slices easily.
Shallow lagoon
takes wrong turn,
blue turns red,
paradise burns.
Leaves behind
a trailer of fear.
Swimmer and fish
disappear.....
Laura Sanders
December 2024
Lifeline, Not Much Time Left, 84 x 55cm, framed by Richard Blacklaw-Jones
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
Terminal Illness
A suit of sadness we sometimes wear,
is quite impregnable to all,
but the one who wears it.
The things we don’t say.
The things we wished we’d said.
How can you possibly cram a lifetime
into a few months a person with cancer has to live?
Playing the game.
Keeping up pretences.
Not breaking down
and always the question of ‘why?’
The clock is ticking and time is running out.
Tina Shaw
The verse and thoughts of Miss Paige Evans on viewing the painting titled ‘Lifeline. Not much time left’. She had a holistic view on most things.
What is it?
When in the cathedral of silent thoughts,
when in the mind, mindful and steered
to holistic views, the interconnections
of what is, what was, and chaos viewed;
she saw no dimension, if that was the word
or perhaps it was more, she did not know
but the picture spelt, no it rather gave
her a nauseous feeling, as spent time
wasted on view, but comforting too
that she could distinguish cacophonous
objects stilled in that coloured frame;
that collection of bric a brac
she was not convinced holistic views
could capture this viewed painting.
Don Magee
Short story, or rather the thoughts of Paige Evans
by Don Magee
Paige Evans had a holistic approach to most things, be they art, literature, work or emotions.
She framed most of her life experiences, and views in this view perspective; well actually it was more a life balance in that she could not live or experience anything any other way.
Thus when Craig presented her with the picture she stalled in her movements, blinked almost in crisis, and expletively asked him ‘what the hell he was showing her.’
‘Is this artwork from your year 8 class?’ You can see she immediately dissected the view with cynicism.
‘No,’ he intoned, ‘it is a challenge for you…. It is not my art class painting, but a professional…’
She interrupted, as she frequently did, ‘and why is it a challenge…. and why do I need one?’
He smiled with intrigue in his eyes. ‘The challenge is to your holistic approach….. what do you make of the images….. what interpretation have you got, and more importantly how will you explain the outcome?’
Now the problem with the holistic approach (as many readers will know or guess), is that it is open to so much diverse interpretation as almost at times to be meaningless. It is not to disparage the approach but merely to explain how it can vary between extremes… vacuous to over complication.
You want to depict Paige grimaced, frowned, her freckles almost coming together, then with her disarming smile surmised in voice, ’if you want to depict chaos then this painting will partly suffice… I see it as such, but only in part. The other part, no parts are taken as a whole, it describes society, how we live, as fragments, collages, images that exist but not as a whole, not in explanation of who we are, and how we live.’
By now she was on a roll of interpretation, exactly what Craig had hoped for. She continued, ‘holistically it describes what we have become…. wasteful, inconsequential… random almost illiterate to everything that has brought us to this point in time.’
She sat down, poured two glasses of wine, offered Craig one, clinked glasses, and flirtatiously finished the monologue. ‘I see the past, and the present…and now I am going to divert somewhat …..and oh so like Proust dipping his Madeleine biscuit in his tea, I will drink to hope that chaotic images collaged as such do not foretell our future.’
Our Health Care Is Broken
So maybe we need to take a different approach…..
Don H
A Bit of a Fixer-Upper
I’m a bit of a fixer-upper, my nose is out of joint
my head is slanted forward, and my ears are to a point
my skin is pale and wrinkled and its coloring has gone
my eyebrows big and bushy and nose hairs seem too long.
I’m walking all stooped over, I’m always looking down
even though I’m always happy, I wear a constant frown
so many different birds are singing up inside my head
I have to ask repeatedly, for words that have been said.
Every single joint is hurting and every muscle aches
and all day long and all night too, my whole body shakes
I’m cautious when I do things, but it never seems quite right
my eyes are dim, I can hardly see without the brightest light.
But my doctor is advising me on the things that I should do
pills and physio and diet and an artificial body part or two
I’m holding back my food intake and walking in the mall
the next time that you see me, you may not recognize me at all.
Don Hamaliuk
Bits 'n' pieces
Flotsam and jetsam washed up on a beach,
deposited by the tide line, just out of reach.
Carried by seagulls, woven into nests,
all kinds of everything, a tangled up mess!
Bits and pieces, smashed by angry waves,
tossed onto shingle, found even in caves!
Remnants of the living, carelessy thrown,
churning, rolling or lifted or wind blown.
Jigsaw pieces, then collected for art.
A Beachcomber's paradise, once sea foam departs...
A life-line for some, with something useful to do -
it's turned into something beautiful, practical too!
Laura Sanders
A suit of sadness we sometimes wear,
is quite impregnable to all,
but the one who wears it.
The things we don’t say.
The things we wished we’d said.
How can you possibly cram a lifetime
into a few months a person with cancer has to live?
Playing the game.
Keeping up pretences.
Not breaking down
and always the question of ‘why?’
The clock is ticking and time is running out.
Tina Shaw
The verse and thoughts of Miss Paige Evans on viewing the painting titled ‘Lifeline. Not much time left’. She had a holistic view on most things.
What is it?
When in the cathedral of silent thoughts,
when in the mind, mindful and steered
to holistic views, the interconnections
of what is, what was, and chaos viewed;
she saw no dimension, if that was the word
or perhaps it was more, she did not know
but the picture spelt, no it rather gave
her a nauseous feeling, as spent time
wasted on view, but comforting too
that she could distinguish cacophonous
objects stilled in that coloured frame;
that collection of bric a brac
she was not convinced holistic views
could capture this viewed painting.
Don Magee
Short story, or rather the thoughts of Paige Evans
by Don Magee
Paige Evans had a holistic approach to most things, be they art, literature, work or emotions.
She framed most of her life experiences, and views in this view perspective; well actually it was more a life balance in that she could not live or experience anything any other way.
Thus when Craig presented her with the picture she stalled in her movements, blinked almost in crisis, and expletively asked him ‘what the hell he was showing her.’
‘Is this artwork from your year 8 class?’ You can see she immediately dissected the view with cynicism.
‘No,’ he intoned, ‘it is a challenge for you…. It is not my art class painting, but a professional…’
She interrupted, as she frequently did, ‘and why is it a challenge…. and why do I need one?’
He smiled with intrigue in his eyes. ‘The challenge is to your holistic approach….. what do you make of the images….. what interpretation have you got, and more importantly how will you explain the outcome?’
Now the problem with the holistic approach (as many readers will know or guess), is that it is open to so much diverse interpretation as almost at times to be meaningless. It is not to disparage the approach but merely to explain how it can vary between extremes… vacuous to over complication.
You want to depict Paige grimaced, frowned, her freckles almost coming together, then with her disarming smile surmised in voice, ’if you want to depict chaos then this painting will partly suffice… I see it as such, but only in part. The other part, no parts are taken as a whole, it describes society, how we live, as fragments, collages, images that exist but not as a whole, not in explanation of who we are, and how we live.’
By now she was on a roll of interpretation, exactly what Craig had hoped for. She continued, ‘holistically it describes what we have become…. wasteful, inconsequential… random almost illiterate to everything that has brought us to this point in time.’
She sat down, poured two glasses of wine, offered Craig one, clinked glasses, and flirtatiously finished the monologue. ‘I see the past, and the present…and now I am going to divert somewhat …..and oh so like Proust dipping his Madeleine biscuit in his tea, I will drink to hope that chaotic images collaged as such do not foretell our future.’
Our Health Care Is Broken
So maybe we need to take a different approach…..
Don H
A Bit of a Fixer-Upper
I’m a bit of a fixer-upper, my nose is out of joint
my head is slanted forward, and my ears are to a point
my skin is pale and wrinkled and its coloring has gone
my eyebrows big and bushy and nose hairs seem too long.
I’m walking all stooped over, I’m always looking down
even though I’m always happy, I wear a constant frown
so many different birds are singing up inside my head
I have to ask repeatedly, for words that have been said.
Every single joint is hurting and every muscle aches
and all day long and all night too, my whole body shakes
I’m cautious when I do things, but it never seems quite right
my eyes are dim, I can hardly see without the brightest light.
But my doctor is advising me on the things that I should do
pills and physio and diet and an artificial body part or two
I’m holding back my food intake and walking in the mall
the next time that you see me, you may not recognize me at all.
Don Hamaliuk
Bits 'n' pieces
Flotsam and jetsam washed up on a beach,
deposited by the tide line, just out of reach.
Carried by seagulls, woven into nests,
all kinds of everything, a tangled up mess!
Bits and pieces, smashed by angry waves,
tossed onto shingle, found even in caves!
Remnants of the living, carelessy thrown,
churning, rolling or lifted or wind blown.
Jigsaw pieces, then collected for art.
A Beachcomber's paradise, once sea foam departs...
A life-line for some, with something useful to do -
it's turned into something beautiful, practical too!
Laura Sanders
April 2024
Shifting shapes, Peak District, acrylic, 12" x 12" by Brian Steventon RBSA
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
Peak weather
My car safely parked; just a few steps to my favourite
vantage point to scan my favourite view. As usual my
eye was drawn to the ancient stone wall as it
wandered across the side of the hill. Occasionally a
square of walls with a gap; used for holding the sheep
for inspection. The wall continued dipping and rising
to the contours until it disappeared from sight at the
edge of what I knew to be a narrow ravine. At the
head of this it was just possible to make out the white
of a fledgling waterfall.
Beyond the wall, scattered amongst the rough
grass and rocks, a large flock of sheep. Within the
wall, fields nearer the farmstead held an assortment of
cattle of various ages and colours. From the yards the
sound of a tractor at work.
I marvelled at the expertise of sun and cloud.
Of all the vista, one, just one field was sun burnished
gold; brighter than a distant field of rape in full
flower.
On the lower, damper slopes the bolls of the
cotton grass bent before a soft welcoming breeze.
Curlews called; high above a pair of buzzards
joyously, cried each to the other as they floated on
their broad brown wings, circling, gaining height, on
the warm air rising.
The clouds now joined ranks, the sun gone as
if switched off. A coolness spread up the valley across
the land. A strengthening gust of wind rocked me on
my feet, fast on its heels, cold blue, driving rain
blurred my vision and the view.
With the storm passed, a fresh view, clear cut
and shining. The sheep mostly lying tucked into the
heather, their backs tight into the side of the hill. The
cattle in their fields standing close, huddled their backs
to the wind.
The crop of rape now a sad, dull ochre. The
cotton grass bolls sodden, heavy, flattened against the
ground. I looked up, the sky an unmoving matt grey.
All around silence, not a sound to be heard.
Mary Buchan
Sun and shadows
Sun and shadow creep across hillsides, sweeping silhouettes and colours form a patchwork of shifting shapes. The old, craggy mountain faces burst into life from their dark, morose, sombre mood to an image of joy, and captivating enchantment.
Laura Sanders
The Peak District
Grey clouds scud and wild winds sweep, over the fells and the peaks,
lambing is in season, as the Herdwicks stand statue-like and bleat.
Soon little black lambs would be jumping merrily around,
and Chiffchaffs and Pheasants, will make their unique sounds.
Shepherds with sheep dogs, check on the sheep.
Slowly the landscape, unfurls from out of its sleep.
Oaks dot the landscape, dry-stone walls patchwork the land.
Meanwhile the farmers deliver lambs with experienced hands.
Rivers and streams flow full from the melt snow,
whilst dippers from out of mossy bank-sides come and go.
By summer the sheep have their wool coats sheared,
whilst climbers visit the Peaks and tourists have appeared.
Boat trips and cruises take place on the lakes,
whilst grassy meadows are cut and hay is then made.
Kestrels hover, while fritillaries visit wildflowers,
rivers tumble over rocks and pebbles, moved by the rain showers.
Red squirrels nibble fallen acorns, scamper then sit,
whilst traditions of the Peak District take place bit by bit.
The calendar year is in full flow,
Lake Windermere and Grassmere is the place to go.
If you like lakes and countryside, it surely is unique,
surely the place one must visit and seek.
Laura Sanders
Monsal Head (Peak District)
by Don Magee
(Note for editor: The author has experienced what this story attempts to deliver. West of the valley, and Monsal trail pass Chesterfield, follow the B6465 and you will find Monsal Head, and yes I sat on the rock overlooking)
‘It brought to my mind youth…. well not so long past but enough that memories slip from view, and mind. So shall I tell you….? Well, better recall those scattered images I have of Monsal Head in the Peak District.’
Edwin Lazeby sipped his early evening whisky, and looked affectionately at Jessica. Comfort between them spread like a warm blanket; they were comfortable in silence, and also conversation, but more importantly they shared a compassion seldom felt, and perhaps seldom recognised between partners, fixed in emotion, but not married.
‘Why images?' she quipped, sliding her fingers through her long auburn hair. ‘Why not a largesse… a short story?’
She left the statement open. She smiled graciously. ‘And will you take me to this idyll, to your youth? And all because you saw a painting, well an acrylic painting. It’s strange how art collects self thoughts….. much like poetry collects feelings.’ She stopped mid sentence, ‘I am not trying to take over your feelings, your sadness for the past… it’s more I would like to share it.’
They both fell silent, whisky glasses in hand, pensive but positive in that strange vacuity that sits between soul mates.
She continued, ’And how many years did you revisit the Peaks?’
‘Oh for several decades….. regular nearly every year; it was a way of reconnecting with my youth. It’s strange how you think you have lost those youthful aspirations, hopes, thoughts, but they swirl back with just a gentle nudge by means of remembered images,’ he grinned at her. ‘Am I boring you?’
‘No’ she intoned, ‘but I want to experience those images.’
He stood, held out his hand to her, and calmly stated, ‘Then tomorrow we will image the Peaks together.’
And thus one humid early September day they walked part of the Monsal trail, sat on the rock above the valley, and felt the peace of togetherness.
Prologue to Images
by Don Magee
The small collection if Image poems reflect the authors visits to the Peak District, in particular ‘Monsal Head’, where sitting in silence he observed the shifting hillside as the sun moved, the mist rolled in, and a silent peace descended. It has been many years but the images prevail.
Image 1 – Nostalgia
High above those folded hills, green
so green with myriad shapes flitting
the tree tops bare shaped, and brown,
for winter with its sharpened teeth
had left softly, reluctant strained;
and now the seeds will grow again
fresh shoots will yester seasons days
cover the earth with tomorrow's bloom,
and all we remember is the slow fade
of memories where once there was the man
sitting on a rock, looking eastwards
hand no longer holding back
such memories of yesterday's youth.
Don Magee
Image 2 – Peak reflections
I saw the sun rise, mellow on the horizon,
and as the morning mist vaporised in trails
of shapeless streams, I heard the voice of reason
sharp and clear. It spoke of futurity, and
a design for living. It spoke crystal tongued
beware of the one dimensional man,
heard the altercative focus of small thoughts.
I smiled, and walked away.
I had other tunes to play, and the dusty
echo of his mind was no more.
Don Magee
Image 3 – Autumns peak thoughts
Autumn became me sitting on the roof
speculative thoughts in a shifting world
that played out the valley slopes below,
with russet wrapped the dying leaves
fluttering the air, wind wafted low;
was there a summer, and did those days
offer sanctuary as heat burgeoned
lassitude, pollen puffed, drifting as
those long forgotten innocent dreams.
Don Magee
Image 4 – Shifting colours, shifting shapes
I have gathered in the flowers
poppy red, and lavender filled
where shoots early the summer grass
as harvest waves of shimmering green;
and in the verdance of those follicled shoots
grazed my soul as ripples in the wind
where swarms the grass of varied hues.
I have seen the passion of the summer day
splashed against the evening sky,
etherised in a violent pageant
of wild colour, placated splendour
of summer shifts, and setting sun
as now garnered the scented fragrance
moving from yesterday's chaos.
Don Magee
My car safely parked; just a few steps to my favourite
vantage point to scan my favourite view. As usual my
eye was drawn to the ancient stone wall as it
wandered across the side of the hill. Occasionally a
square of walls with a gap; used for holding the sheep
for inspection. The wall continued dipping and rising
to the contours until it disappeared from sight at the
edge of what I knew to be a narrow ravine. At the
head of this it was just possible to make out the white
of a fledgling waterfall.
Beyond the wall, scattered amongst the rough
grass and rocks, a large flock of sheep. Within the
wall, fields nearer the farmstead held an assortment of
cattle of various ages and colours. From the yards the
sound of a tractor at work.
I marvelled at the expertise of sun and cloud.
Of all the vista, one, just one field was sun burnished
gold; brighter than a distant field of rape in full
flower.
On the lower, damper slopes the bolls of the
cotton grass bent before a soft welcoming breeze.
Curlews called; high above a pair of buzzards
joyously, cried each to the other as they floated on
their broad brown wings, circling, gaining height, on
the warm air rising.
The clouds now joined ranks, the sun gone as
if switched off. A coolness spread up the valley across
the land. A strengthening gust of wind rocked me on
my feet, fast on its heels, cold blue, driving rain
blurred my vision and the view.
With the storm passed, a fresh view, clear cut
and shining. The sheep mostly lying tucked into the
heather, their backs tight into the side of the hill. The
cattle in their fields standing close, huddled their backs
to the wind.
The crop of rape now a sad, dull ochre. The
cotton grass bolls sodden, heavy, flattened against the
ground. I looked up, the sky an unmoving matt grey.
All around silence, not a sound to be heard.
Mary Buchan
Sun and shadows
Sun and shadow creep across hillsides, sweeping silhouettes and colours form a patchwork of shifting shapes. The old, craggy mountain faces burst into life from their dark, morose, sombre mood to an image of joy, and captivating enchantment.
Laura Sanders
The Peak District
Grey clouds scud and wild winds sweep, over the fells and the peaks,
lambing is in season, as the Herdwicks stand statue-like and bleat.
Soon little black lambs would be jumping merrily around,
and Chiffchaffs and Pheasants, will make their unique sounds.
Shepherds with sheep dogs, check on the sheep.
Slowly the landscape, unfurls from out of its sleep.
Oaks dot the landscape, dry-stone walls patchwork the land.
Meanwhile the farmers deliver lambs with experienced hands.
Rivers and streams flow full from the melt snow,
whilst dippers from out of mossy bank-sides come and go.
By summer the sheep have their wool coats sheared,
whilst climbers visit the Peaks and tourists have appeared.
Boat trips and cruises take place on the lakes,
whilst grassy meadows are cut and hay is then made.
Kestrels hover, while fritillaries visit wildflowers,
rivers tumble over rocks and pebbles, moved by the rain showers.
Red squirrels nibble fallen acorns, scamper then sit,
whilst traditions of the Peak District take place bit by bit.
The calendar year is in full flow,
Lake Windermere and Grassmere is the place to go.
If you like lakes and countryside, it surely is unique,
surely the place one must visit and seek.
Laura Sanders
Monsal Head (Peak District)
by Don Magee
(Note for editor: The author has experienced what this story attempts to deliver. West of the valley, and Monsal trail pass Chesterfield, follow the B6465 and you will find Monsal Head, and yes I sat on the rock overlooking)
‘It brought to my mind youth…. well not so long past but enough that memories slip from view, and mind. So shall I tell you….? Well, better recall those scattered images I have of Monsal Head in the Peak District.’
Edwin Lazeby sipped his early evening whisky, and looked affectionately at Jessica. Comfort between them spread like a warm blanket; they were comfortable in silence, and also conversation, but more importantly they shared a compassion seldom felt, and perhaps seldom recognised between partners, fixed in emotion, but not married.
‘Why images?' she quipped, sliding her fingers through her long auburn hair. ‘Why not a largesse… a short story?’
She left the statement open. She smiled graciously. ‘And will you take me to this idyll, to your youth? And all because you saw a painting, well an acrylic painting. It’s strange how art collects self thoughts….. much like poetry collects feelings.’ She stopped mid sentence, ‘I am not trying to take over your feelings, your sadness for the past… it’s more I would like to share it.’
They both fell silent, whisky glasses in hand, pensive but positive in that strange vacuity that sits between soul mates.
She continued, ’And how many years did you revisit the Peaks?’
‘Oh for several decades….. regular nearly every year; it was a way of reconnecting with my youth. It’s strange how you think you have lost those youthful aspirations, hopes, thoughts, but they swirl back with just a gentle nudge by means of remembered images,’ he grinned at her. ‘Am I boring you?’
‘No’ she intoned, ‘but I want to experience those images.’
He stood, held out his hand to her, and calmly stated, ‘Then tomorrow we will image the Peaks together.’
And thus one humid early September day they walked part of the Monsal trail, sat on the rock above the valley, and felt the peace of togetherness.
Prologue to Images
by Don Magee
The small collection if Image poems reflect the authors visits to the Peak District, in particular ‘Monsal Head’, where sitting in silence he observed the shifting hillside as the sun moved, the mist rolled in, and a silent peace descended. It has been many years but the images prevail.
Image 1 – Nostalgia
High above those folded hills, green
so green with myriad shapes flitting
the tree tops bare shaped, and brown,
for winter with its sharpened teeth
had left softly, reluctant strained;
and now the seeds will grow again
fresh shoots will yester seasons days
cover the earth with tomorrow's bloom,
and all we remember is the slow fade
of memories where once there was the man
sitting on a rock, looking eastwards
hand no longer holding back
such memories of yesterday's youth.
Don Magee
Image 2 – Peak reflections
I saw the sun rise, mellow on the horizon,
and as the morning mist vaporised in trails
of shapeless streams, I heard the voice of reason
sharp and clear. It spoke of futurity, and
a design for living. It spoke crystal tongued
beware of the one dimensional man,
heard the altercative focus of small thoughts.
I smiled, and walked away.
I had other tunes to play, and the dusty
echo of his mind was no more.
Don Magee
Image 3 – Autumns peak thoughts
Autumn became me sitting on the roof
speculative thoughts in a shifting world
that played out the valley slopes below,
with russet wrapped the dying leaves
fluttering the air, wind wafted low;
was there a summer, and did those days
offer sanctuary as heat burgeoned
lassitude, pollen puffed, drifting as
those long forgotten innocent dreams.
Don Magee
Image 4 – Shifting colours, shifting shapes
I have gathered in the flowers
poppy red, and lavender filled
where shoots early the summer grass
as harvest waves of shimmering green;
and in the verdance of those follicled shoots
grazed my soul as ripples in the wind
where swarms the grass of varied hues.
I have seen the passion of the summer day
splashed against the evening sky,
etherised in a violent pageant
of wild colour, placated splendour
of summer shifts, and setting sun
as now garnered the scented fragrance
moving from yesterday's chaos.
Don Magee
March 18, 2024
Minotaur on column by Elaine Peto
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
www.creativecoverage.co.uk
Inside Cnossian
Crazed bull paws and scrapes the dusty ground,
he bellows out the most hideous roaring sound!
Lowers his piercing horns, cries out in hunger,
yearns for youthful flesh, awakens from his slumber.
White albino fur but still a vile, ferocious creature,
breath to melt all flesh, rippling torso, is his feature.
Trapped inside this hell, she tries to evade her ordeal,
tight stomach, heart beat thumps, she tries not to squeal.
He advances, eyes of pink blood and black onyx roll,
gored, her limp body falls, he takes her heart and soul.
Laura Sanders
Minotaur
With the head of a bull, the body of a strong man,
sacrificed to this, you would run as fast as you can!
Inside a dark, dark labyrinth, a long winding maze,
the minotaur snorts and stomps, enjoying his day.
Many youths, he has consumed, in his evil quest,
putting skills and ideas of the young, to the utmost test.
It seems he liked too much the taste, for human flesh,
and sacrificial blood offering, which he enjoyed the best!
No docile bull, sedately munching green, lush grass,
he violently charges, not letting anyone pass!
Trapped in the maze, and unable to navigate out,
he will gore you, toss you, no-one will hear you shout!
Seems hero Theseus, won him with a ball of string game,
he unwound it, so he could return, same way that he came!
With help of lover Ariadne, and his sword, on island of Crete,
the Minotaur in Greek mythology, was stabbed and thus beat!
Laura Sanders
A gentler side
Hi my name is Mino,
I want to tell you a story.
But before I do I must let you know,
you might find it a little gory.
I am half bull, half human,
I have a particular vice.
My favourite food is people,
I’m fed young men as a sacrifice.
I am very strong, live in a maze,
everyone’s scared of me.
But that makes me sad simply because,
that’s not how I want it to be.
I have a much gentler side,
that I cannot really display.
If I try to be friendly to people,
they simply run away.
Wasn’t it obvious that by crossing human and bull,
they would create something most unappealing?
Did they expect it to sit quietly in a corner,
and just stare up at the ceiling?
I want to know what love feels like,
experience feelings and emotion.
Come spend some time with me,
teach me all about devotion.
Don’t worry you’ll be quite safe,
you can trust me, have no fear.
But just in case I get peckish,
perhaps you shouldn’t sit too near!
Garry Davidson
Crazed bull paws and scrapes the dusty ground,
he bellows out the most hideous roaring sound!
Lowers his piercing horns, cries out in hunger,
yearns for youthful flesh, awakens from his slumber.
White albino fur but still a vile, ferocious creature,
breath to melt all flesh, rippling torso, is his feature.
Trapped inside this hell, she tries to evade her ordeal,
tight stomach, heart beat thumps, she tries not to squeal.
He advances, eyes of pink blood and black onyx roll,
gored, her limp body falls, he takes her heart and soul.
Laura Sanders
Minotaur
With the head of a bull, the body of a strong man,
sacrificed to this, you would run as fast as you can!
Inside a dark, dark labyrinth, a long winding maze,
the minotaur snorts and stomps, enjoying his day.
Many youths, he has consumed, in his evil quest,
putting skills and ideas of the young, to the utmost test.
It seems he liked too much the taste, for human flesh,
and sacrificial blood offering, which he enjoyed the best!
No docile bull, sedately munching green, lush grass,
he violently charges, not letting anyone pass!
Trapped in the maze, and unable to navigate out,
he will gore you, toss you, no-one will hear you shout!
Seems hero Theseus, won him with a ball of string game,
he unwound it, so he could return, same way that he came!
With help of lover Ariadne, and his sword, on island of Crete,
the Minotaur in Greek mythology, was stabbed and thus beat!
Laura Sanders
A gentler side
Hi my name is Mino,
I want to tell you a story.
But before I do I must let you know,
you might find it a little gory.
I am half bull, half human,
I have a particular vice.
My favourite food is people,
I’m fed young men as a sacrifice.
I am very strong, live in a maze,
everyone’s scared of me.
But that makes me sad simply because,
that’s not how I want it to be.
I have a much gentler side,
that I cannot really display.
If I try to be friendly to people,
they simply run away.
Wasn’t it obvious that by crossing human and bull,
they would create something most unappealing?
Did they expect it to sit quietly in a corner,
and just stare up at the ceiling?
I want to know what love feels like,
experience feelings and emotion.
Come spend some time with me,
teach me all about devotion.
Don’t worry you’ll be quite safe,
you can trust me, have no fear.
But just in case I get peckish,
perhaps you shouldn’t sit too near!
Garry Davidson
