Arts

In His Likeness

In His Likeness

Made in his likeness. More true than correct.
A permanent resemblance, confirming
his rigidity. In every respect
a replica; and in that sense, a thing
to be admired. As would justify
impressive compliment: so highly classed,
so desirable to this maiden’s eye.
Thus, besotted by his enduring cast,
she would praise upon him commendation.
Wonder at the depth of his conviction.
Absorb his strength, ride his motivation;
’til resolved of Cupid’s contradiction.
. Conviction is not a measure of length,
. without substance we have no strength.

© Tim Grace, 19 October 2014

To the reader: Stature has less to do with shape and form; more to do with conviction and substance. While the proportion of a figure provides insight into its mechanical advantages, the nature of its pose and posture suggest its depth of character. Poise and style are features of an impressive presence; something to be admired.

To the poet: Shakespeare enjoyed a little naughtiness. Sprinkled throughout his sonnets are references to all manner of subtle titillations. His last two sonnets (153 and 154) provide the most obvious examples of his brand of bawdiness. Never salacious or explicit just suggestive of something a little spicy. Could that be … surely not?

In His Likeness

In His Likeness
Picture Source:
(http://youtu.be/OOO1mffekkw)

True to Word

True to word

With my attention divided, I sit…
Pen, poised above the page in readiness;
hopeful of a script that would see it fit
the purpose of a quill; and so, impress
its thoughts upon a blank page. It hovers
above the line with nothing yet to write;
the grip of an unsteady hand bothers
the nib; uncertainty – in pensive flight.
In anticipation it contemplates
the possibility of nothingness;
a void in the universe that equates
to unwritten principles – more or less.
. True to word: a pen without instruction,
. finds absurd the point of its production.

© Tim Grace, 9 March 2014

To the reader: The physical translation of my poetic thoughts onto paper is through a pen; obviously, a free-flowing versatile pen is preferred. It needs to be an ergonomic pen that sits comfortably in my hand; happy to be twiddled, over-worked and under-paid! All the better, if that pen is well-weighted; designed to manoeuvre and embellish as it imprints letter onto line.

To the poet: Those fancy ostentatious pens that ooze with opulence are far too pretentious to be of any use in drafting. I’ve given them a try. Their notable features demand attention; they want to finish with a flourish and leave indelible marks. Signature pens are dressed for occasion; singular in purpose, unready for sustained action. As a medium, the perfect pen must neither interrupt nor distract from the creative process.

True to Word True to Word
Slivered Light

Slivered Light

Nothing more than a glimpse of slivered light;
delivered right of stage, left of centre.
Just a hint, a glint, of something bright;
so she came, just as light had sent her.
She was not drawn from darkness, not from pitch;
far more rich, she glowed with lumination.
She posed no question, she required no switch;
far from this, she shone with explanation.
Not a candle, not a bulb, not a torch;
too warm to scorch the scene with burning flames.
She cast no shadow, nothing to debauch
the instant truth that light so brightly claims.
. With a light stroke, her presence was revealed.
. She came complete, with nothing more to yield.

© Tim Grace, 14 March 2014

To the reader: Light’s revelation can slowly dawn to uncover what darkness hides. Vast horizons emerge as night becomes day. Light can also cast an instant beam of illumination. Delighting the eye with small surprises. In just a slivered glimpse, the eye captures a passing moment… a flash of brilliance. Within that slivered aperture is the essence of art’s sensuality… form is given shape.

To the poet: Art is responsive. It can be reactionary in a spontaneous fashion; impromptu and unrehearsed. It can also be reflective in a mulled-over sense; practiced and refined. Mercurial-art is more likely to be associated with an artist’s unique character… a flash of brilliance. Lingering-art has time to contemplate and wonder; time to lose its originality … as form is given shape.

Slivered Light

Slivered Light

Nine Squares

Nine Squares

A window partitioned into nine squares.
The top three frame the sky with loftiness.
A summer-haze gives rise to grand affairs;
a cathedral of blue with gold finesse.
Three black umbrellas, from central casting,
flank the populated panes; overhang
a series of light lunches, short lasting
courses: round plates, round tables; ying and yang.
A long list of legs fill the bottom panes
with passing trade; pedestrian traffic;
litany of litter and gravy-stains;
a base-load of footsteps; demographic.
. Plain-glass windows with horizontal stretch.
. Nine squares, three rows… a panoramic sketch.

© Tim Grace, 21 January 2014

To the reader: Window frames define space. Some selectively give border to a scene; while others set no limits to a vista. Either way, a sheet of squared glass delineates one view-point from another; inside from out; here from there. This invisible but very physical medium is a lens through which we look out upon a passing parade.

To the poet: Another observational sonnet. In most cases, my poetic outlook is uninterrupted, I see through the structural frames of reference to focus on a scene of interest. In this case, I was obviously struck by the window’s pre-defined partition of the visual arrangement. One large window; a tessellation of space: nine squares, three rows … a panoramic sketch.

Nine Squares

Nine Squares

Scenery at large

Scenery at large

The scenery at large is much the same.
Division of the canvas is at scale.
My chair’s vista, its aspect, holds its frame.
Too much of the same; how soon the fresh goes stale.
And so, in search of interest, I observe
the nuance, the difference, at closer range.
The ant upon the banister, the curve
of filagree, the butterfly’s exchange,
the magpie’s meanderings, the sun’s glint
brightening my pen, sharpening its edge.
Dislocate from distance a fine-grained hint
of interest; extract one leaf from its hedge.
. Beneath a broad brush there sits a fine stroke.
. Fire finds new flame from an ambers poke.

© Tim Grace, 9 October 2013

To the reader: Big picture spaces have big dimensions, sized to fit larger than life characters committing acts of great courage or crimes of deep passion. Scaled-down, the miniature world has its equivalent perspectives. With the lens in macro we can watch nature’s smallest surveyors staking-out territories; acting-out tragedies… eking-out existences. All creatures great and small have a frame of reference.

To the poet: The poet’s lens is endlessly variable. From a static vantage point, characters move in and out of fields of interest and intrigue. A single character can occupy layers of landscape; moving in and out of focus. Poets select their foreground, and from within that loose-boundary construct a depth of field. The narrative’s success relies on how convincingly a curiosity emerges and then interacts with the imagery… context is everything.

Scenery at large Scenery at large
Break of Day

Break of Day

This new morning plays a still symphony.
A soft blue haze gives the sun its fresh start.
‘Kookaburra sings in the old gum tree’
Birds of the woodwind harmonise in part.
Sounds of colour, yellow-tipped greenery.
A black crow caws, disturbs the wafting lilt.
‘Morning has broken’ splits the scenery.
The shadow of a cat’s meow casts its tilt.
The full-bloomed sun begins its daily chores.
Instruments of song re-billed to forage;
to business; the sound-track of sliding doors,
‘Good morning’ and the day’s gone to porridge.
. The morning’s pleasure is to softly seize;
. so handled with care and treated with ease.

© Tim Grace, 5 October 2013

To the reader: There are ‘good mornings’ … they come with suggestive pleasantry. The suggestive component provides for just a touch of the unexpected; ‘good mornings’ must be interesting affairs. And as for pleasantry, that’s a collective measure of surrounding comforts. Although simple, ‘good mornings’ are also very fragile events; easily damaged by the squawk of overt rudeness; the cat’s claw and the crow’s caw both shaft and cut in one fell-swoop.

To the poet: The creative zone is bound to time and place. For me, this temporal location is at its best in the couple of golden hours that launch the sun into its full ascent. That lifting can be strenuous if not approached in the right frame of mind; and made all the more difficult if disrupted by an intrusive influence. The frustration of a shattered morning is creatively crippling; truly the break of day!

Break of Day

Break of Day