Sunday, 29 November 2015

Visual ideas for novel....















Visuals for Novel A

When I write, I see and hear the story I have in mind and sometimes take a few photos as reminders and inspiration.



Part One










Part Two































Part Three












Part Four and Five


(in progress)




I am unsure about whether to include images, partly because some areas of the novel would be devoid of them and the reason for this is that the cameras I had with me ran out of film and my cellphone ran out of charge so I reached a phase on the Norfolk coast where imagery is purely stored in my head and I guess then I depicted what I saw in my mind and in surroundings in words.

I hope one day to make a film of my story.  

The photos act as a constant visual reminder.

Saturday, 7 November 2015

Love Poems - written November 2015


Nothing without You

November 2014

I
You are as filament, or gold-dust pollen 
on a plant, as my meadow blue skirt is blown by 
the unchained breeze over the common - the marsh - 
fabric as light as summer wings, then
settling on you.






A sun-singed leaf blowing onto to your bed, a trembling star
on the blue-black ripples, a shimmer like the silk 
of my slip on the night, the wren on the branch in 
the garden when I'm not there,
a bead of rain on your face.

That ache that I feel when you're gone,
hollow as a gouged out eye,
a fissure in the earth,
nothing
without you.

Chest a mesh of knots, like the rigging of a ship,
this drunken boat, the most delirious trip,
and I am a roller-caster captive, 
riding the waves, and even if I wanted, 
I know that I cannot get off.

II
And I could find a potion to undo your spell I would 
take it down like a shot of vodka and try to forget.
And perhaps I will find the girl that I lost when 
I fell
for you,

as though entering a sparkling sea 
without any idea how to resist 
the current.
Or if 
I would survive.

III
But if the spell breaks now, and the last few weeks just
melt away like a dream, you
like a phantasm, not real, vanishing out of my sight?
That first afternoon, like a scene in a play, outlaws
for drinking, not at the altar, the holy wine, but from our

own bottle of blood red Valpolicello, sprawled 
on the grass at St Paul's, ordered
on our way by the gardener, and wandering,  as exiled rebels
together. Cast as Adam and Eve. 
Wandering

to the gardens between The Savoy and The Thames, me 
in a striped summer dress over bare legs, a pale pink 
sweater because you say
you like Audrey Hepburn and she 
liked pink, 

Would it just fade like leaves wearing out? 
A deleted scene.
A dream 
coming to the end, 
that never happened at all.


An autumn washed down with tears and ash and sluices of rain,
a remnant, a scrap, like some dead leaf, shivering in 
winter's hands, you like a sailor washed up on some 
faraway island, the pair of us torn asunder
shivering in separate beds.


Separate 
wreckages.
Miles,
miles 
apart.

Anyway, how can I evict you, as if you are spirits or cocaine
I just have to stop taking when you come
to my dreams, me 
a recalcitrant pony and you won't let me away?  
You have me, you know it, in your invisible reins, 


leading me away with your look, 
a glance, your voice, quiet 
as a horse whisperer 
no one else hears.
So I am yours.

And you - my anchor in the dark, 
the anchor around which I float. 
The rein around which I trot. 
My head a swirl of metonymy,
a psychedelia of random illogic,

a collage of abstracts,
a composition of white noise and stories that end dissolved
into a kiss, you the drink I take in. 
My nectar. 
My sweet addiction.  

And I do not believe that all addictions are bad. 
We were made for love addiction. And if we are not in love
then does it matter when the song on the player says
love is an angel disguised as lust? And what would I
know about it? 

She could be right. And surely we have to risk it
or we will never know so torch the room with 
your glowing halo and hold,
hold me in your sweet smelling petals
my angel of light.

And somehow it feels
like I am nothing,
nothing without you.
Zero.
A hollow ring.









28

November 2015
Twenty eight sleepless hours,
your azure eyes,
gazing like moon into mine.

You holding me down.
Catching the edge 
of my skirt like a leaf in flight,

our paths, halted,
unable to cross,
eyes meeting eyes,

you holding me still, your gaze defining
my movement as though you are a pencil
and mapping out where I can move.

And I want for nothing but to gaze upon you, thinking
of nothing but you, and you gazing  
on me, like I am a harboured yacht, still... 

still, by the wall, after weeks 
weeks of being lost and  adrift. You
wandering about my interior

as I float on the polish
plashing of the waves,
of the waves...





The Lighthouse 

September 2016

Two years since we met, and 
somehow I sense you watching over me, knowing 
my fragility like as you know might know 
the fissures in 
a favorite cracked vase
you try not 
to break when 
pouring fluid in. 

And I only have tiny 
amounts to wine.
We know I can get sick after a single glass and cry. 
And run to the bathroom locking the door, 
Like that other time, when you 
attempted to get in, obviously because  
you don't want me to commit any kind of self-harm
alone, with a razor or anything,

I feel could be an improvised death-weapon.
I made you worry more than you want to worry
for me
or anyone.
They don't teach this, do they? At boarding school.
How you handle a crying woman in a bathroom? 
They teach you to write to a far away mother.
Seal it and put a stamp on. No tears.

Two years in.
And now we know everything there is to know
about each other and we are in the song,
now of innocence and experience.
The derailments are done.
We know how to steer it and how fast this love 
carriage goes in each different gear.
And how to press emergency stop.

It is good.
All fine. I think.
After the derailments and the rifts and our coffee dates
with other men and women we were trying out to see if
there was anyone we preferred, like choosing a garment
that is the best fit and style on us and moves 
how we want it to move like some exquisite fabric,
the perfect fit.

But you say,
look it may not be forever.
And I know then that you won't get in.
You won't be in that little ship with me far far
out in the waves. Because you will be up in
the tower, watching for other ships, still thinking
there could be some better option like some liner
docking you in a glamorous port..






And what am I to do?
Just sail away, into oblivion?
Or moor the little coracle on an island by myself, 
lighting the kindling of my own little fire,
and eating alone. 
And when you come back, do I spread legs for you then,
like a number three or four, or even number seven 
of a harem of girls?

I would like to drop you in the sea.
No, I don't want a sybarite, I want your heart 
in the curve of the little boat, stowed inside me,
and sealed with box and bow so no one else
can get it. This is what I really want but I would never say that
I want you to want it all. I want you to mirror me and say,
yes, it is all or nothing and yes I want it all,
forever in your arms until death parts us forever.

But you win me back anyway. We are discussing sports cars and
then you play me Paradise by the Light of the Dashboard.
You sing me it.
Could have been written for you! you say...
Did you copy the lyrics out from the middle stanza where she
tries to extract a marriage promise from the ambushed man?
And you know me so well.
How I say the right things but will agree to anything...

And even if I rock about in the little storm of my passion
whilst you look on saying, it is just half-love, be ready
for this all to end because I am a total commitment-phobe,
I stage the anniversaries of the first date, Rosé with lunch, 
to replicate... Pink, because you say
you like pink. And I bring you drinks I know you like such as
Strega. And imagine I am capable of placing you under
my spell. And you will never get away.

But this is love with love instead of love with you.
And somehow it seems like you are not really there.
You are lighting up the lighthouse, whilst I want to sail to sea,
and whilst you warn me, you can love me madly, but could hurt me so so badly, 'Remember what I said that they say
about me, my sweetness, 'Mad, bad and dangerous,' don't say I never warned you.'  I will sail on.
Sail on by.



The island has people on it now. 
So if you want me then leave the tower and come right down
to the sandy beach. Sandy see? Does not hurt the feet.
Into the shallow waves, warm and never cold.
And into the deep water.
No rocks.
Into the boat,
And see, you know how to sail to the regatta.








































Friday, 6 November 2015

The Persephone file




Rossetti on Proserpine

She is represented in a gloomy corridor of her palace, with the fatal fruit in her hand. As she passes, a gleam strikes on the wall behind her form some inlet suddenly opened, and admitting for a moment the light of the upper world; and she glances furtively towards it, immersed in thought. 
















Friday, 2 October 2015

The Light Album



I started to compile some photos together on the theme of light



Nice






Menton




Nice




unknown place







reflection of a segment of the observation-wheel - 

Winter-Wonderland - Hyde Park





the dismantling of winter wonderland






car head-lights


crossing a common - in north east London





on the way home from my friend's house





heart shape

in a cemetery in Hampstead - London







making coffee on electric stove - 


a London morning





Sunday, 13 September 2015

Van Gogh as inspiration

I first saw this painting today by Vincent Van Gogh.
It's of Armand Roulin and was painted in 1988






There is a look to Jeremy Corbyn that reminds me of Van Gogh- perhaps the sincerity. Corbyn and Van Gogh also share an interest in the ordinary person, the worker.











Van Gogh by Van Gogh





Perhaps I could try to paint Jeremy Corbyn ?





Figurative Photos - Summer 2015

Some photos I took on holiday this year around Lisbon, Sintra and Estoril in Portugal, with my BlackBerry.





me - Atlantic Ocean





police at Estoril train station




writer at Estoril




man on bench at Estoril




guitarist - beach at Estoril




father and son - Estoril




Salvador - Estoril




fisherman - Estoril





me - Lisbon





family - Sintra





Rosabel Sophie - Estoril



The youngest of the family 
Background: Casino Estoril







man and woman on a bench, Sintra


Time permitting I intend to use these some of images as inspiration for a series of drawings perhaps, if not oil paintings. Hopefully the dilutants, such as poppy and linseed oil, won't make me feel too nauseous. I don't have a studio out of the home, so when I set up all my painting things here we are surrounded by heady fumes. I dislike acrylics but may consider gouache or egg tempera.