Painting Clouds

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Between cloud bursts builders give my flat

a face lift; scars filled in, that wall greyed

with smog and dry rot is retouched to a white

that mixes with the rain and drizzles down

the walls to form puddles on the concrete floor. 

 

While down the road the people of Stokes Croft

are painting too. The over sixties and the under

tens, students and labourers, some with homes

– others without – chat over cups of tea and

slices of cake. Old wooden doors animate

 

and bud beneath their fingers. Wildflowers 

bloom here and deer graze on canvas in an

outcast building in Jamica Street where there

are no flowers , only different kinds of weed

 

and half-starved grey pigeons peck amongst

the refuse of the day. But in this room ships

set sail from isles of colour and cityscapes

emerge where dark, storm clouds threaten. 

 

One man's eyes seem to tell of years spent

sitting on street corners.  His voice echoes 

with the deepness of underpasses  but his

brush transforms the canvas. He paints

the town red – and has an artists vision.

 

 

 

Reviews

[fireblossom]

I loved that poem. You are one damn fine poet. Your insides must be lined with goldleaf sheets of ancient poets.

Even more seriously, a great poet reflects our life experience. You often take the mundane and show us its true value or greater meaning. You have the gift of making us take another look. Doing so we find more value and worth sitting right at hand.

Thanks.

[emmajoy]

Your final sentence encompasses every thing else and majestically" What a superb piece of writing, a chain of minatures colouring the actions and people within them. Love the listing of 'Wildflowers bloom here and deer graze on canvas ... only different kinds of weed ... and half-starved grey pigeons peck amongst the refuse of the day.'

Your phrasing, your thoughts truly are exceptional. This is both heartfelt and technically extraordinary.

[Donald Meikle]

I miss you

[J]

It's nice to read you again, Ness. And after all these years, we all seem to grow into our own voice -- which you show me here. It's wonderful to see, to read, and to feel, most of all.

Concise, emotive, a true palette to think over.
J

[SilentDream]

I love seeing art in this way..

Each line is rich in color and sound.
Wonderfully done!

~SilentDream

[fireblossom]

This is now my favorite verse

One man's eyes seem to tell of years spent sitting on street corners. His voice echoes with the deepness of underpasses but his brush transforms the canvas. He paints the town red � and has an artists vision.

Quite loving and gentle.

[Donald Meikle]

That brush and your familiarity with Stokes Croft brought this to life. I looked at the picture last and could almost swirl the loaded brush. Well painted Ness, well painted indeed!

[Brittany]

The imagery in this piece is phe-nom-e-nal.

Art is infinite, and you capture that with your style.

[Gandré]

Absorbing lines, genuine poetry with all your metaphors and the red town metaphor what might it mean? A fighting town or a town in love.... it could be everything. I loved this, I loved this.

[fireblossom]

I like your updates. This part sung to me

and bud beneath their fingers. Wildflowers bloom here and deer graze on canvas in an outcast building in Jamica Street where there are no flowers , only different kinds of weed and half-starved grey pigeons peck amongst the refuse of the day. But in this room ships set sail from isles of colour and cityscapes emerge where dark, storm clouds threaten.

Great work of contrasting bleak and color. I really pictured that.