Poetry Drawer: A Fugitive Moment by Faye Joy

matisse

Soft lights and chatter

spill through

the open door,

they draw me in.

I look beyond

familiar faces and glimpse

 

two young boys on a sofa.

their limbs intertwined –

a tangle of lurex thighs

and spangled lycra vests.

 

I can almost

imagine the eroticism

of Matisse’s odalisques

and patterned wall hangings.

Here though, flower stickers

placed to enliven bare walls

parody that reverie of

Moorish exoticism. Opulence.

 

The scene flickers between

actual and imaginary.

I think of Whitman’s phrase

We two boys clinging together,

of  Hockney’s later

eponymous paintings of

Californian boys in white socks.

 

The two boys on the sofa untangle.

One, a neighbour, moves towards me

to place the requisite kiss

which I return in like manner.

 

Picture: Blue Nude by Matisse www.artfund.org

Inky Exclusive: Interview with multi talented artist Mark Sheeky

Your beautiful watercolour illustrations printed in Songs of Life showcases Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience by William Blake. What a lovely idea. What is it about Blake that inspires you? A lot of our followers are also fans of Blake, including our past and present Inky elves.

Blake was a mystic, and a classicist, sticking to his artistic path even when his artistic beliefs were unpopular. A typical English genius, ignored and ridiculed when alive, then hailed as a hero after his death! Why does that happen so often?! Perhaps a figure like that can always be an inspiration. It’s ultra-romantic to think that any one of us could be hailed as a hero and genius after our deaths, especially those of us who struggle with poverty and a ridiculous idealism for art. Tragic heroic figures like van Gogh or Chopin exude this precious feeling, liquid inspiration. Blake was a unique artist though, creating books of deep feeling and meaning, personal, and yet warmly social. His work is touching because of the personality in it.

On a more Earthly level, I illustrated Blake’s work by chance. I was attending as a demonstrator at a trade show for three days and needed something to paint, so I grabbed Blake’s book from the shelf and painted the illustrations live.

Your unique poetry book 365 Universes contains many illustrations to accompany your verse. Can you share one of your favourites with us?

MarkSheeky-Delphi

Delphi

Ashes cast into the pit.
Pungent smell flows like snakes above it.
The oracle rolls her head and moans.
Sweat on her neck, eyes flit.
She awakes.

A bent finger extends.
The traveller bends his crowned head.
Shadows dart and fly by flame.
Silk gowns drape.
Here in Delhpi’s dramatic terrain,
most famed among Greeks.
Virgin priestessess bow.
The oracle speaks.

What do you care about? Which themes keep cropping up in your writing?

What do I care about, now there’s a question! At times I feel so removed from humanity and society that I wonder myself where I am and in what realm, like Blake perhaps! At times I feel utterly apart from the humans that fill this world, untouched by any, like the moon, like Mars, a castaway. Yet this is how it’s always been. Humans. All faults, evils, wrongs come from ignorance, people not seeing the consequences of their actions, yet it’s nobody’s fault. People destroy things because they don’t notice, and people destroy the environment, or cause extinctions. People breed excessively or choke the Earth. So I care about the environment, yet other animals behave in the same way, rats or bees or any creature expands to fill its space, and would do the same as humans. Monkeys would dominate if people didn’t. So I could care about education, but there are limits, even if everyone was educated, it wouldn’t stop damage to the world, or people doing things senselessly. I know that the self-preserving parts of us all will ensure that the world is also preserved; a society reflects the personality of its occupants, and all of humanity is reflected by its individuals. So, I care about the environment and all life, yet am dispassionate. I care about understanding, empathy, and beauty. It’s an old idea that beauty can improve humanity, and I believe that. Beauty is the simplest form of inspiration, and a tool we can all use to change society.

Which themes crop up in my writing? Always personal themes, I guess, whatever I’m feeling at the time. The best things I read, for me, are the moving things, the personal things that make you feel for and understand the writer. To read someone going through something you went through can be so special and touching. People love van Gogh, not for his paintings, but for his life, which he illustrated with his paintings. To express myself is my art philosophy, and therefore help others in similar situations.

Can you tell Ink Pantry about The Many Beautiful Worlds of Death?

I outlined the story a few years ago. It’s about a man who is dying, but who has invented a fantastical time and space machine, which he uses to find a cure, or really, explore his life, and the important things in life generally. It’s sort of like the literary version of the Bergman film, The Seventh Seal, but much more fantastical and bright! It’s written in a surreal and magical style, like most of my fiction.

You are also a professional oil painter of surrealist art and have exhibited widely across the UK. Tell us about one of your most memorable exhibitions.

I had one in Crewe called Heaven and Hell where I divided the venue in two, one half for Heaven, with seven cotton-wool clouds hanging from the sky, a beautiful azure silk drapery, and a soundtrack of tweeting birds, then in the Hell side, darkness and four lamps of the apocalypse, huge things made from card and wire, mostly skeletons grasping the bulb in some way, and a soundtrack of clanking bells and screams! We all dressed up as mythical gods for the opening night. Such fun! All of my exhibitions now have a show element; theme, characters, music, lighting. Art is more than painting, it’s total expression.

As an accomplished musician you have produced and published over 20 albums, from electronic to orchestral, even soundtracks. You have a sound effect library called IndieSFX. Interesting! Tell us more.

I started writing music years ago, I needed to for the computer games I used to design. So my early style was that sort of music, very computer-gamey. It was only in the last few years that I started to think of music as art and personally expressive. I recorded a concept album of ’80s style pop songs called The End and The Beginning which was about a personal awakening, a later The Love Symphony was about loneliness leading to love, in a Beethoven’s 9th Symphony sort of way! My music philosophy is Romantic in the 19th c. tradition. My last album The Anatomy of Emotions was my first of live piano music and I’m moving more towards a live sound and away from digital. It annoys me now that so much contemporary music is “too professional” sounding! Odd, that ubiquitous recording technology has somewhat killed the raw-ness, the truth from the heart that music should express, ideally!

Can you share with us a typical day in your world of art?

I do so much that each day varies, except that I get up at 8am, have regular breaks and work until 11pm every day. I’ve never had a holiday and always been self-employed. I take care of my health first, it’s our most valuable asset, but I find it easy to create, and I work by the clock. When I’m writing or painting I’ll just start at 9am, and keep going until break time at 10:30, resume and keep going until the next break. I’m highly disciplined.

Have you any plans for the future?

So many. I perform each month now in Macclesfield, art performances but often piano playing with video. I’ve got many paintings in progress, and ideas for new types of art. Painting is nearly a dead form in this century, it’s a hobby, not pushing boundaries. I have ideas for new types of art. I want to make a couple of albums too; a piano concerto and maybe a new concept album, and lots of events lined up for 2016 including an installation on Crewe station in June 10th to commemorate the Queen’s birthday, but oh, at times these all seem like pointless indulgences. None of these things bring in money and I need to start to do that. This year will be difficult, so I must also try to create things that will sell! Much as I admire heroic Blake’s poverty and post-mortem acclaim, it’s not something I wish to emulate! My destiny must be to be known while I am still alive.

Mark Sheeky’s Website

Pantry Prose: Ghost Word by Richard Kefford

ghost

You might laugh me out of the text but I think it is etymological discrimination. Just you check and see how many times little words like ‘the’ and ‘and’ get used compared to me. I understand the argument about conjunctions and articles being used a lot because they are essential to the smooth running of the prose, but what about real meaning? Now, there is something that is vital to any exposition; have you seen what Elmore Leonard used to do to his novels? I never rated them myself, and I think some of the readers who raved about them could be described as me; I mean, he never really even describes his characters properly and leaves out the bits that readers would skip anyway. That’s no good; novels are supposed to be hard work, aren’t they?

I think my basic problem is that I was born as an adjective. Now, what is the essence of an adjective? What is its function? The humans always boast: ‘I think therefore I am’. The most an adjective can say is that ‘I describe therefore I am’. This means that my existence depends on someone using me to describe something or someone else. I have no independent existence; I always have to depend on a noun being available that I can apply myself to.

Don’t get me started on nouns. Do you know how arrogant they are? ‘I am therefore I am’, they always say, relishing their independent existence. And as for gerunds, they are even worse, seeing themselves as upmarket nouns. ‘We can do the job of both nouns and verbs,’ they boast. ‘I am and do therefore I am’. Snobs, all of them.

Yes, I’m afraid I suffer from the adjective’s perennial problem: low esteem. I have been to see my Thesaurus, Dr Roget, but she wasn’t much help. ‘You should just accept your place in the lexicon and be happy with that,’ she said. ‘You have had a good life. I know you were in the Army; the Paras, wasn’t it? That gave you a chance to travel, and I believe Jonathan Swift wrote all about your adventures around the world.’

‘Yes, but even he spelt my name wrong. You’d think a man of the church would go to the trouble of getting that right, wouldn’t you? I think the main cause of my problem is that I am still the only word that has been left out of an edition of the OED by mistake. They made sure I was back in the next edition, but how do you think that makes me feel? What do you think I should do?’

‘My suggestion is this: accept your place in the order of things and your characteristics that you cannot change. You will always be an adjective, for example, and there is nothing wrong with that. Where would we be without the valuable work that you and your colleagues do? The world would be a very simple and plain place. I suggest that you go back to your home in the OED and make friends with your neighbours. The one before you, ‘the passage by which food passes from the mouth to the stomach,’ sounds like he may have some interesting stories, and the one after you, ‘a ravine or channel formed by running water,’ may have some stories of far-off places that you both have visited.’

‘OK, I’ll try that. Thank you, doctor.’

‘No problem, always glad to help. If you have any more problems, you can always come and look me up.’

I walked out through the waiting room and saw an old friend of mine, Hannah Rayburn, sitting in the corner.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked

‘I’ve been coming here for some time, to see Dr Roget. She is treating me for my problem.’

‘What problem is that?’ I asked, a little indelicately.

‘I get frightened by old-fashioned cookers in big, open plan kitchens,’ she said. ‘The doctor thinks I am suffering from agoraphobia.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I had better let you get on with your therapy then, I can see you have a lot on your plates.’

‘Yes, I’m cooking dinner tonight.’

She knocked on the door and walked in the doctor’s treatment room. I didn’t believe a word of it. Who did she think I was? I’m not a backward Evian. I’ve been around a bit.

I did as Dr Roget suggested and made my home in the G section of the OED. I was getting well settled in when, one day, there was a lot of noise from just overleaf, on the next page. I looked it up and found it was gunfire – the repeated firing of a gun or guns – so I looked across to the opposite page and talked to my guardian – a person who defends and protects something. Yes, I know he is one of those nouns, but he agreed to look after me. I think he was feeling quite proud to be asked, even if it was only by a lowly adjective. He was really a guerrilla guardian from Guatemala who was quite fond of alliteration, so we bonded well as we went fishing for gudgeon together.

That’s what he told me and I, of course, believed him. That is what I do.

Books from the Pantry: In the Blood by R.L.Martinez: reviewed by Natalie Denny

Cover

Ottilde and Oriabel Dominax are identical twins with opposite personalities. Ottilde is a warrior trained, strong, brash, exiled from her country and imprisoned for killing her lover, Prince Chroy. Oriabel is gentle, caring, a gifted healer and much loved by the inhabitants of her home village of Corlaan.

As Ottilde, also known as prisoner 296, languishes in a jail miles from her twin, she is visited by a mysterious being who promises to help her escape. She learns that her beloved sister is in danger and will do anything to reach her. Due to Ottilde’s war criminal status, Oriabel is under the control of an overseer and royal envoy, Sir Kester Hugo, who along with his wife, only has ill intentions for the Dominax sisters.

Oriabel hides a dark secret behind her innocent eyes. She’s a witch and up until this point has only used her power for the good of her people. Corlaan is a superstitious and religious place with a history of bloodshed of those with magical abilities. Oriabel has no choice but to hide her mentor, Jacind the elderly witch, along with the truth about what she really is.

The arrival of Lord Hito Varon, sent by the King to relive Sir Hugo of his duties, turns Oriabel’s world upside down. He is handsome, noble and she responds to him in a way she has never to anyone before. Hito also has a secret of his own. He is an Onkai, a shapeshifter, the knowledge of which is only shared with his mother, Merin. As Hito and Oriabel’s relationship progresses they fall deeply in love with each other and also closer to danger.

We are drawn into a race against time as Ottilde desperately tries to reach Oriabel before the schemes of Sir Hugo reaches their evil conclusion.

The dialogue is quick and humorous, the themes dark despite the magical overtones. The relationships portrayed are complicated but believable. Some of the characterisation appears cliched in parts but R.L.Martinez is successful in creating an inviting portrait of an exciting but perilous new world

The sisters are at the heart of a tale of magic, deception, love, power and greed controlled by a force much bigger than them. The story combines witchcraft trails and superstition with other magical elements with many twists and turns to keep you engaged.

The characters of Oriabel and Ottilde compliment each other well, what one sister lacks the other possesses in abundance. It’s a winding tale of sisterly devotion and the ties of the blood.

If you’re looking for an accessible fantasy read, look no further.

Poetry Drawer: Death (accompanying the poem Hope) by Connor Owen

death

Gouging out face-book posts,

the bodies line the sub-text –

streets.                    Unseen.

Deadheading graveside tokens,

the blood is sifted through eye-

lid epitaph filter to patriotic

blue.             Blown into ash.

A man stands, shadowy, death

wannabe; Hitman Cosplay; fancy

-‘dress to kill’ attitude. Tips his

hat and either side of you

parts of you crumble.

You weep,                       maybe.

I am blessed with tunnel vision to

nullify this melting, my eyes are

sheened with apathetic venom.

 

Death, I do not fear you.

Poetry Drawer: Hope by Connor Owen

hope

That class A indulgence.

That whisper on the ear.

That lifestruck babe.

That lovestuck grave.

 

This superfluous tear.

This frozen moment.

This dreadful climb.

This uplift dread.

 

Their stupid kneeling.

Their blinding light.

Their needless notes.

Their endless plight.

 

My oldest foe.

My fearsome trickster.

My toxic marshmallow.

My radioactive high.

 

Hope, I fear you.

 

 

Picture: villageofhopeuganda.com

Poetry Drawer: Where Have All The Flowers Gone by Mark Sheeky

decay rose

Sleeping alone, with a song.
Where have all the flowers gone.

Stalks of green straw, rough,
and petals decayed and floated away,
with pretty scents.
Leaving their harsh hay,
and the acidic perfume taste,
of old age.

They were always there, not here.
In a stall, or the sun.
The weak weak yellow push
of the beams of the sun.

Where have all the flowers gone?
Sleeping alone, with a song.

 

 

Poetry Drawer: The Stranger by Claire Bassi

cherry

Nine acres of sharp, dry grass and a place; shuttered, closed,

green-mossed windows shield the still foam clouds

and flies on cluttered sills.

This life, your store of cold meat does not appeal to me,

and cherries hold sour memories;

A secret told in the root cellar

Was meant to clear the air

but sent me wild to city walls,

deaf with Verdi, sick with fear.

I sit in lakes, pick leeches from my hair,

wring water from my skin,

weighted by things I almost had.

Bad decisions made.