Art Infused

“I am”, said sculptor Barbara Hepworth,
“the form, the hollow, the thrust, the contour”.
The form made quite discernible from birth.
Not formless, any more, as was before.

The hollow, beneath the exterior,
creative space that is interior.
It is certainly not inferior.
The femininity, superior.

The thrust, phallic in its drive to erect.
But, it is not solely a male feature.
Shape, smooth, with curve and hole that helps perfect
The contour, round and comforting pleaser.

Here, a sculpture, but not marble or stone.
In poetry. A structure on its own.

Fantastic Shapes. In the park making them,
the thin young lady, as fit as can be.
On the green, see her body stretch and bend.
Dancer or acrobat’s practice, maybe.

Almost the splits that pose, with her straight back.
Just front stretched leg slightly bent at the knee.
She comes out of that perfectly intact.
The whole ‘still’ and movement done gracefully.

Then she’s into an arched back done backwards.
Her arms folded over at the elbow.
A Buddhist pose, next, upright, she records;
before a triangle from head to toe.

Supple to do all that, and will stay so.
Sublime exercise, in the sun, on show.

A glimmer of a possibility.
A fracture in the deep-set stone appears
Creativity’s versatility.
Through the crevice, light itself engineers.

Then, the crack, in time, likely get bigger.
Larger, wider, all the way through the stone.
Be so, that more than just light can slither.
The tiniest creatures through it may roam.

And light itself change the way that it looks.
It transforms into different colours.
The sort of growth, … even weeds …, that likes nooks,
a home, in this space, to thrive discovers.

That glimmer through the fracture is the start.
The possibility to create art.

Bistre. Greyish brown with a yellow tint.
Not a long way away from sepia,
which is reddish-brown, with ‘old’ look distinct.
Past times photographs describes easier.

Bistre on religious icon paintings.
Or backdrop to women in old-days dress.
Other background colours, light, replacing.
Sort of crepuscule twilight, more or less.

Because bistre can be half-light, like dusk.
Maybe contribute to iridescence.
Add to luminosity, some gold dust.
Almost capture the gloaming, in essence.

Perhaps in skin or hair shade, a use lies
for bistre. Even be in someone’s eyes.

Tawny. Orangey-brown. Of course, the owl.
The Tawny Owl. Illustrates the colour.
A colour-mix, more its own colour now.
Obvious brown transformed, we discover.

Tawny is also a version of port.
The liquid must have seemed to be that shade.
Maybe from wooden barrels, colour caught.
Maybe when first poured, seemed to be displayed.

Tawny, alongside sepia, bistre.
Brown changed to become a different look.
In the colour spectrum, then, a fixture.
Like maroon, khaki, wine; from brown been took.

But, if not a dark brown that want to see,
you can’t do better than go with tawny.

Up until now, I have not rhymed bistre
with mister, sister or even blister.
Left turning in the wind, like a twister.
Maybe hear one said on my transistor.

Up until now, have not rhymed sepia
with leap clear, leap year, or even sleep near.
Sleepier. But then what? Best kept simpler.
For this, is no fear if use disappear.

Up until now, I have not rhymed tawny,
to my mind properly. Oh dear, poor me.
If joke about it, that would be corny.
Horny’s too rude; not ‘wannabe’ tawdry.

Up until now, I have not rhymed with brown.
But rhyming for the sake of it, just sound.

Improvise. Try to determine what’s next.
Set the agenda any way you choose.
Does not have to be unduly complex.
If seems getting nowhere, nothing to lose.

May as well try something off your own bat.
May put ‘life’ into what it is doing.
Someone, or something, somehow may react.
Maybe yourself, too, after reviewing.

Could be comic. Could be original.
It may take in another direction.
Break what seemed intractable, after all.
Even point the way to insurrection.

But there’s no excuse or explanation,
to be ‘stuck’ when there’s improvisation.

Inspiration. I mean, inspiration
is a factor in improvisation.
It takes off from the imagination.
At least, that is my interpretation.

Maybe arising from contemplation,
there will be more than an intimation.
Likely transform the whole operation,
becoming enthused with inspiration.

Then, bound to be, during its duration,
a singular idea, sensation.
Or more. Maybe an accumulation,
flowing freely from the inspiration.

Improvise. Spontaneous creation.
At its best will come from inspiration.

Something more internal, but not contrived,
the source material from which derive
the poems expressing what felt inside.
From the knot of language, these are untied.

Actually, a profusion of words.
Sentences delivered quick from the mouth.
Meanings rushing through, with so much inferred.
Yet, still entertaining those in the house.

Much seems to be visceral; gut feeling.
Sayings sharp, or blunt weapons bludgeoning.
The poet’s angst and anger, revealing.
Cutting remarks finding an opening.

Pain, but not distress, oozing from the lips.
Therapeutic, though. Out from In, the twist.

The last soldier out of Afghanistan.
Last foreign one from the United States.
Over, occupation of foreign land,
leaving feudal Taliban in their place.

It is an evocative photograph.
Armed in full uniform in a tinged light.
Orange-brown setting, indicating past.
Taken from plane boarding, prior to flight.

Final withdrawal mostly unseemly.
Many desperate to evacuate.
Thousands made it through the airport melee.
Lots left behind, as for them was too late.

Photo’s allusion, ‘golden age, then go’.
For both sides, … Afghans still there …, don’t think so.