Inkphrastica: Nigel Astell—Martin Elder—Maggie Waker—Randall Horton—Poems inspired by Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting

Till Death Do Us Part
(by Nigel Astell)

Bride was unfaithful
murdered by Groom
white wedding dress
soaking blood red
death sentence passed
lifeless hanging corpse
devil lovers whisper
honeymoon in hell
this ghost marriage
can now begin.

Look At Me
(by Martin Elder)

Is this how you really see me
Is this how you want to see me
Daubed here
Hung here for the whole world to see me
This nervous wisp of a sprite
In all her pasty glory
Look at me
LOOK AT ME
Please…please look at me
I am trying to smile
I really am

Are my eyes really that colour?
Are you sure
My skin is so beautiful
Don’t say just like me
It’s so crass
So obvious
So sad like the look in my eyes
Look at me
Tell me this is a lie
That this is just a cheap imitation
That I am something more than this
I have arms and legs
A whole body to
I have a mind
Ears that hear everything
Every last drop of gossamer breath
I see
I see you now
I see you yesterday
And the day before
And the day before that when you are moaning
And yet you just see today
Looking back at me
Am I a trophy
Your badge of honour
For a job well done
Look at me
No don’t look away
Look at me…please
O.K. I will be here
Waiting…
Until you come again to look at me

Last Picture
(by Randall Horton)

Last Picture

A girl

         Or a boy

Looks at the illusion of time

                        And imagines a future

Free from space.

                       A continuum breaks.

A smile, too.

Woman
(by Maggie Waker)

Some say she’s scary
I say she’s scared

Some say she’s pale
I say she’s poorly.

Some say she’s tired
I say she’s trapped

Some say she’s thin
I say she’s slim

Some say she’s delicate
I say she’s ethereal

Some say she’s plain
I say she’s ill – favoured

Some say she stares
I say she cares.

Some say they connect
I say I bond.

Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting: Miss X (available for sale)

Inkphrastica: Spume: Andy Millican (Words) & Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting)

Even the hardest rock succumbs to time,
its unrelenting elements. Now spume
casts white blankets atop their home, a chime

unheard announces their collective doom.
No bee is an island. A paradigm
as much for them as man. And as their tomb

envelopes them a hundred bees will hum.
Ask not for whom the bees hum; it is them.
For this is their communal kingdom come
and as the sea becomes them, say Amen.

Andy Millican: Write Out Loud

Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting: A Tower of Bees Hit by Forces Beyond Their Control (available for purchase)

Inkphrastica: Your Face: Emily Oldfield (Words) & Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting): Part 2 of an Ingmar Bergman Triptych

Imagine your face in someone else’s thoughts
rising to entertain the secret aspect of an eye
and looked to with blind significance
like a small sun without the light.

Already you have been held in mornings
by familial tides, when a parent made the move
to preserve your innocence in a pupil-picture
knowing it is what you may both reduce.

Yet in time you will be clutched in evenings
by the stranger whose sight for you runs deep
and will follow your face, project it within their mind
a moon – giving promise but no relief.

Emily Oldfield

Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting: The Passion Of Anna (available for purchase)

Inkphrastica: The Sunset Years: Nicola Hulme (Words) & Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting)

The sunset years are beckoning me
they whisper my name each night.
Youth softly slips from my fingertips
as my body loses its fight.

Like the snail I move much slower now.
My eyesight fails and all is blurred.
I catch only half of what’s been said
never quite sure I’ve correctly heard.

My seized knees hurt when I climb the stairs.
I puff and groan as I try to stand.
Changes have crept up on me
That never featured in any plans.

But as I slide down the craggy slope
Alone, my outlook is far from grim.
I have great faith in adventures to come
when my earthly light dips and grows dim.

Nicola Hulme: Write Out Loud

Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting: The Infinite Tiredness Of Ageing (available for purchase)

 

Inky Interview Exclusive: Matt Abbott on his Two Little Ducks Tour: by Claire Faulkner

Matt, you’re taking your show Two Little Ducks on tour around the UK.  Are you looking forward to it?

Absolutely, yeah – I’d say it’s by far my biggest achievement in my poetry career to date, and even though it’s now less than a fortnight away, I still can’t quite believe that it’s happening. Obviously on one level I’m anxious about ticket sales (22 dates is a lot of dates to sell!), but I know how hard I’ve worked to get to this stage.

I’m really proud of the show and am immensely excited to be sharing it around the UK. Most of the venues on the tour are completely new to me, which is even more exciting.

What can we expect from the show?

In terms of the structure, it’s a sequence of 22 poems. But it’s very much presented as a standalone theatre show, so rather than “poem, clap, chat, poem, clap, chat”, it exists as one piece. Content wise, there are three core strands.

Firstly, I’m exploring the core reasons behind working-class support for Brexit. I grew up in a city that voted 66% Leave and find a lot of the sweeping preconceptions about Leave voters unfair (although I’m very clear to call out racism, obviously).

Secondly, I’m recounting my experiences volunteering at the Calais Jungle refugee camp, which I did either side of the referendum. What we see in the mainstream media is a gross misrepresentation and in my eyes a real disgrace, considering the nature of the humanitarian crisis on our doorstep.

Finally, I use kitchen-sink realism to tell the fictionalised story of a character called Maria. I allow her strand to speak for itself.

How did the idea develop?

Well, I have to be completely honest with you. I did a Nationwide advert back in September 2016, for which I was paid a large sum up front. I immediately decided that I wanted to use the opportunity to write a show and take it up to Edinburgh for a full run. Obviously this was only a few months after the Brexit vote, and only a month after I’d most recently been to Calais. So in many ways, circumstance had given me the ingredients for the show before I’d even decided to write it – which in my opinion always leads to the strongest content.

I’d been writing the character of Maria for years, in various strands (from songs in my band Skint & Demoralised to failed attempts at screenplays and novels, and in poems since 2013). Initially I was only focusing on Brexit and Calais, with the title ‘Two Little Ducks’ in my mind, but as the show developed, I realised how important Maria’s role was in sewing it all together.

The version which I took to Edinburgh last year was effectively a very polished scratch based on the initial premise. I began to tweak and develop it over the winter, based on what I learnt at the Fringe, and then when I was offered a publishing deal by Verve, it gave me the perfect time-frame to undergo a brutal rewriting process and produce the final version.

In many ways I’m frustrated that so many people have seen a version of ‘Two Little Ducks’ which I consider to be vastly inferior to the final show. But I recognise that it was all part of the process, and when I come to write my second show, I’ll know to do things differently. Also, the tour and the book represent the show’s pinnacle and obviously the book remains forever, so that’s the main thing.

I should also quickly explain the title. ‘Two Little Ducks’ is an old bingo call (slang for number 22). For me, bingo is one of the things that epitomises working-class culture, a culture that I grew up in, which led me to write the Brexit content. That’s married with the fact that there are 22 miles between Calais and Dover – hence the show’s title. And Maria’s strand begins on her 22nd birthday; 22 being the age in which all youthful landmarks/targets disappear, and you’re left to figure out adulthood entirely on your own, with nothing on the horizon but your own doings.

What sort of feedback have you received?

The show received two 5* reviews at Edinburgh Fringe, one of which was in The New European, which is a newspaper that I hold in very high regard. In general the feedback has been great, but I’ve only performed the final version once (at the Roundhouse’s Last Word Festival in June), so essentially, I’m partially discounting all feedback until the tour starts!

You’re running free poetry workshops alongside the tour.  What can you tell us about these? 

I’ve always written poetry which can be accessed and enjoyed by people who might not ordinarily engage with poetry. I’m really passionate about engaging more people with poetry in general, but in a way that directly contradicts their perceptions of it being a stuffy, elitist, academic and outdated art from. I didn’t go to university and have no formal qualifications when it comes to poetry, so I like to think that I can help people to bridge the gap and discover a new passion. I can’t even begin to imagine my life if I hadn’t started writing poetry at 17.

So the workshops are a chance for writers and abilities of all ages to have their say. It’s not competitive or elitist in the slightest, and I’ll give participants the opportunity to publish their work in an online document, which will grow as the tour navigates the UK.

The tour also coincides with the release of your first collection.  Congratulations. You must be thrilled. Where can we order a copy from?

After 12 years of writing and performing, I’m absolutely over the moon. I still can’t quite get my head around it, and will be eternally grateful to Verve for publishing me. You can order the book via my record label’s online shop here for £10. You can also purchase a studio recording of the poems in the show for £5 (download only), or both together for £12.

TOUR DATES

Inkphrastica: Parhelic Circle: Linda Cosgriff (Words) & Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting)

Masha beseeches Mother Sol,
Save my son.
The sun inside the sphere
destroys the son inside of her.

Her hands, her perfect hands,
reach out to the mock sun,
entreat calescent earth:
I incubate the future;
emend this mandatory rebirth.

Alas, alas, humankind’s time
has come and gone
and with it, the sun.

Linda Cosgriff

Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting: Self-Portrait As Philosopher (available for purchase)

Inkphrastica: Riding Ariel: Helen Kay (Words) & Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting)

The hoof-beaten brain
a recipe of tears and sweat
and this utterly speed of rhythm
kneads her thighs to the saddle
stirs her into the summer blues
away and away with.

She knows his sandshape grip
his brutal bit that pulls a grin,
that gags a want to crawl
towards the ever there darkscape,

A match striking the moors
she sparks her blood to sand
that moulds its gritty mirage
through vein and artery
leaving scorched earth
and a blister of sun..

Helen Kay

Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting: Abandoning Someone Who Was A Friend To Me When I Had None (available for purchase)

Inkphrastica: Not for nothing do the scorned: John Lindley (Words) & Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting)

Not for nothing do the scorned
fall on their own sword
or, in this case, take the sharp and tapering
end of a horn to heart.

Love’s triangle, pin-prick sharp, now clouds
and beside its token gesture, martyrdom beckons.
All was equal, equilateral but not so now.
He no longer fights his corner.

He bares the body, bares the head,
becomes the colour of quicksilver
in the quicksand of a cell
but must be seen to suffer

so has the wall’s one scar open;
has it neat and shapely;
has it as a portal to his pain,
its point arrowing to his showy surrender.

John Lindley

Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting: The Death Of Man (available for purchase)

Inkphrastica: The Fairy-Feller’s Systems Failure: John Keane (Words) & Mark Sheeky (Oil Painting)

A fairy-feller hides in emerald shades
While feathered faces dance the perfect dance
Evading hope in pale, despondent glades
Where shadows stumble on a wild mischance:
And all of this beyond the edge of sleep
Where dreamers kill the things they care to keep.

A wedge of futuristic steel observes
And coolly calibrates this elfin scene
Kissed by a savage sun along its curve,
No form more dread than this has ever been:
It brings the future and the end of days
To wayward dreams and errant human ways.

Who knows if at some cold and vast remove
The wedge will raise again these faerie lands
Within its clouded circuits? Dreaming groves
Of rusting trees where still the gnomon stands:
Where robot birds hail corrugated skies
And elves of chrome kiss iron butterflies.

John Keane: Write Out Loud

Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting: The Paranoid Schizophrenia Of Richard Dadd (available for purchase)