Tag: painting

Flowers in One Sitting

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Pabbi would buy flowers whenever he could.
At home this was an expensive and not often
Done thing. Elsewhere the very streets beckoned
The colours were rich and the prices were good.
Mom could take anything green to her heart
And in her hands it would bloom just to please
Her, and on her table it would blossom into
Art. The kids, one summer, brought bunches
Of wild lupin, blue as ceramic jugs, home
From their wanderings. Their grandmother
Found bowls and vases and white watering
Cans in which they lounged, nonchalant
In their riotous glory. You could say
It’s a family story. My inept floundering
When it comes to things beautiful and bright.
It’s a good thing I get the shadows right.

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Courage #9 – Still Life: A lockdown poem

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The trick lies in the highlights
You set them in strong. Pure
Dazzling bright whites. To shoulder
The weight of the darks. Take care
To register what you see only. Not
What you know is there. The shape
Of all seen through each, shapes
The sense of all.
Stillness lies in the eye of the beholder.
Things move apart to come together again.
The beauty is all in the transitions
The glow the shimmer the shine the glitter
The overlay of time on space. And when
Memory is all there is to work from
There is still life still colour still observance
Still courage in grace.

How to Paint a Cloud: A Valentine’s Day’s Sonnet

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Its harder than it looks; it isn’t just
White on blue. The underpainting lies
Beneath the dark as well as the light.
It really isn’t a matter of just
Slathering on the white. In fact,
By far the harder thing to do
Is coming away from the bright shades
With greys and burnt umbers and you
Must remember that the brush moves
Always from dark to light dark to light.
Love must be a lot like that, you think
Preparing your canvas just right. But really
Love is just one of the tiny, curvy vees
A bird winging itself into sight. 

Burnt Sienna

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It appears I’ve always lived in raw umber
With just the right amount of jesso. The
Canvas of my life lying under the
Colours of a palette mixed just so. Each
Shade a version of grey – luxurious oodles
Of white changed by a tiny dab of black. I
Wonder at the palette knife smoothing it
Down, not too sharp, no need to hack and
Carve away the artificial bright. They say
It allows the painter to create the many
Shades of light. I get it, I think. Until the time
That we run out of umber and use burnt
Sienna instead. My sleeping skin has turned
Blue. It is dazzling, not like skin but wine.
Suddenly it looks like anyone’s arm but
Mine. Maybe I should have painted by
Numbers, stuck with bases of raw umbers,
Lived dumb and painted dumber. Anything
Rather than confront this blue skinned person –
My raw-umber life’s burnt sienna version.