Wednesday 27 November 2013

(C) Mural



(C) Mural

A Muralist Mexicano was José Orozco whose style révolutionnaire was Symbolist Manifesto. (C)

Despite losing his left hand in Zapotlán el Grande, José raised the level of art el Hispano.

Diego Rivera married to Frida, painted murals in Moscow, Mexico, San Francisco.

Frida did the foxtrot and things that she should not with Leon Trotsky; including the tango.

In the Sistine Chapel - Adam, Eve and the apple, were adorned on the ceiling by Michelangelo.

Whilst the walls of the Sistine were covered with pristine panels of Moses by Ghirlandaio.

Sandro Botticelli, Perugino and many more muralists did pluralist work there also.

And ‘The Temptation’ by Rust is considered a must after passing through Ragley Hall’s portico.

Cave paintings at Lascaux, Altamira and Chauvet are the original murals painted so long ago.

These frescoes were admired, and also inspired street artists like Banksy and … Pablo Picasso.

Murals in Northern Ireland are politically wired, religiously conspired and aggressively so,

To inflame deep held passions and prejudice fashioned to turn men into robots; so aggro.



But a mural is not always a durable record of humanity’s ills in the world that we know.

Modern graffiti, in the towns and the cities, is often removed after only one show.

What constitutes art? The critics are polarised when structures are vandalised by false bravado.

“Mural mural on the wall, who’s the bravest of them all”? The silent catchcry is incommunicado.

Da Vinci’s ‘Last Supper’ - unarguably the uppermost example of the mural but not true fresco.

Down through the centuries, armoury to penitentiary, the painting’s condition has waned to and fro.

French troops threw rocks at it, prisoners spat at it, a doorway cut through where Christ’s feet should go.

Finally, Dan Brown’s pot-boiler produced one last spoiler – John became Mary, oh woe Leonardo!

The Last Supper’s  restoration fires the imagination, stimulates senses, and strokes the ego,

Of artists such as Banksy, who like ‘Widow Twankey’ uses satire, ridicule and innuendo.

The mural is not a cure-all, or graffiti all excreti; it seems that a compromise is not going to flow.

There’s a difference in implements: charcoal and crayon pencil to spray-can and stencil, although…

Beauty’s in the beholder and now that I’m older, I’ll just sit on a boulder and feel the wind blow.

© Memories of Cracker Night



© Memories of Cracker Night

 I don’t regret exploding all those bungers up an elm tree.
We ran away, my mate and me and laughed so merrily.
But my father, in a lather, took a rather stringent view.
For I’d set the tree on fire and dire consequence ensued.

I’d set the mini dynamite in a portion of the girth,
With the consistency of a tinderbox that was drier than the earth.
Dad came running with bucket of water, then resorted to a hose.
The smoke was growing thicker; it was quicker I suppose…

Than to call for the local fire brigade; I laid low for awhile,
It was clear I was in trouble but still I couldn’t help but smile.
Once the fire was extinguished, in anguish, I reappeared,
Dad had called to me repeatedly now his wrath was unimpaired.

He boxed me ‘round the ears and he used some colourful speech.
He tanned my backside with every item close within his reach!
And finally he confiscated all of my remaining stash;
‘Chopped them up in tiny pieces and then dowsed the final ash.  

So no more Catherine wheels, sparklers or the dreaded bunger...
Was I allowed; my dad avowed to deprive me but I hunger,
Still to relive the thrill, that excitement in the belly,
When you blow up stuff...enough! Now I watch it on the telly!

On New Year’s Eve we watch the pyrotechnics on the harbour.
The colours are so dazzling, entrancing and spectacular.
But something is still missing from the wondrous huge display,
‘Eternity’ burns upon the bridge and senility’s on its way.    

(c) Memories




(c) Memories

As I look down my corridor of memories,
I’m pleased to say I’ve made more friends than enemies,  
This is very surprising as I’ve made many mistakes,
There have been rifts in the family causing much heartache.
Astonished I am that I’m now sixty something;
It appears I’m a survivor, not ripe yet for gazumping!
Two thousand and twelve marks my diamond jubilee
In Terra Australis, in terror paralysis, my earliest memory:  


I dimly recall watching the waves and feeling the sea spray,
Six weeks on a migrant ship, Scotland now so far away.
East from Gibraltar and across the warm Mediterranean Sea,
Through the Suez Canal, close to Mesopotamia were we.
Down the tropical Red Sea to the Gulf of Aden
Left to Sri Lanka then called Ceylon; we were laden...  
With elephants carved from an ebony tree,
Mother said, “We had the most amazing pot of tea”.
We went ashore at Colombo long having been on board,
Soon crossed the equator, where, King Neptune gave accord!
Then South-East for many weeks across the Indian Ocean,
To dock in at Fremantle; there was much emotion.
Australia at last, yet so far still to go, when do we alight?
Like an albatross in flight, we spanned the Great Australian Bight.
And put in at Melbourne and met some strange relations,
But we were bound for Sydney town: our penultimate destination.
From there we travelled to the Blue Mountains, finally relief.
Arriving in July fifty two, the Fahrenheit was too: a new home in Blackheath.  

© Legally Annoyed



© Legally Annoyed


A little baby in distress, from an Asian family no less, makes a mockery of the concept of a ‘quiet carriage’ on the train. Many people complained, couldn’t hear when speaking on their mobile phones – perhaps it hasn’t been explained properly to her in dulcet tones; but is it legal?  

Blind justice – the ability to split hairs or pull a rabbit out of a sack, or turn back boats, buy them or hide them; whoops, sorry – keep it quiet, don’t want a riot. We decide who comes to this country and the way in which it shall be reported; otherwise the news becomes distorted.
As they say, ‘ignorance is bliss’.   The adults are now running the show (so they claim), so no-one else to blame. Best to check with Frank, George or Rupert; it would be stupid otherwise to spread more ‘lies’, sorry (again!) I meant propaganda. Oh dear, how politically incorrect of me – must I genuflect to thee or pander to your whims? Truly, boatpeople may not be Christians, but for the most part, they’re not crims – but is it legal?  

Turning to bigger boats, whatever happened to Clive’s votes? No doubt there has been a military conspiracy. Then again, is it a gigantic stuff-up (a technical term) of titanic proportions? One cautions restraint; politics isn’t for the faint hearted or the newly departed. Does one detect the smell of a burning martyr? Try a little palm oil to ease the malaise or try to think up ways to control the senate. How could it possibly generate such an unholy alliance? Be you Coalition or Labor, it’ll be hard to curry favour with this motley crew. You should have voted below the line, one hundred and ten more times – but was it legal?

When shopping in Africa is on the agenda, keep your wits about you when in Kenya. Ignominious death is on special; do ‘the youth’ wrestle with bestial guilt? Let that filter through your brain; but is it legal? No, it’s just insane! Come to the shopping mall, fun for all!

I have to give blood to pathology but they refused to take it. There was a blackout due to high blustery weather and I gather from the nurse it’s a curse to take blood in the dark. Was Dracula ever concerned about workplace health and safety issues? ‘I vant to bite your neck, but vait, I’ll just check with ze union rep if it’s legal; have you got your Medicare card? It iz zo hard to bite by candle light!’

So high ho, to the hospital I go to walk up and down and push weights around. I ride the bike that goes nowhere. But as insidious as ectoplasm my back goes into spasm and I must abandon the exercise for the day. By the time I get back home the pain has gone; but the consequences linger on. There is something rather perverse about an exercise programme that makes you feel worse. In a former life, I must have caused considerable strife to a Chinaman. I wonder: was it legal?

Oh Jesus, Muhammad and Buddha; I should have finished this rave by now. But I swear by other ‘sacred cows’ that it’s so hard to focus with the clamour that the locusts make. Not to mention the strident attention from the man who cuts the lawn I don’t know how much more I can take so perhaps I’ll take a stroll down by the lake (when back pain desists) and try to feed cicadas to the ducks. Oh shucks, you can’t do that! It might be desirable, but, tut tut, is it legal? 

© From A Window…



© From A Window…

In the early hours of the morn as we were borne by bus from London to Dover,
We gazed nonplussed from our window at the wide stretches of parkland and clover
Called ‘Blackheath’. “Good grief”! My old hometown named for this place
Where are buried countless victims of the 'Black Death'. But this green space
Is where county cricket is played watched by genteel folk sipping lemonade,
In summer. Not daunted by the highwaymen who haunted the passing parade,
In the 17th century. Eventually, many dangled from gibbets ‘til their bones bleached.
Later, other flibbertigibbets campaigned here for women's suffrage and free speech.

Other women, not as discriminating, gaze from their shop windows in Amsterdam.
They watch scornfully the punting ‘mugs’ and other thugs who damn
Their occupation. Gawking tourists, who stroll by the canal, marked by their banal
Comments and apparel, oblivious to the blandishments of hawkers in flannel.
We gazed upon the city of water; from the barge other sights caught our attention.
Anne Frank’s Achterhuis where she hid with her family to avoid detection,
From the Nazis, who were particularly nasty; a poignant reminder of a dreadful war.
A happier sight is an ocean liner cruising towards our hotel, seen from the 14th floor.

Later on the Grand Canal, in total bliss, we glistened along by boat and gondola.
Venezia – the city of masks, the city of bridges, St. Mark’s square and laguna.
One tries, in vain, to see the Bridge of Sighs, covered by hoardings, and yet a kiss...
To buttress our union as the legend say; hey! Lord Byron doesn’t know what he missed!
Long colourful mooring poles poke up drunkenly, like oversize drinking straws
From the dank water. We saunter beside the canal, ordering white wine – “per favore”.
Then pay homage to the ‘Queen of the Adriatic’ despite how aromatic she seems.
A decaying, erratic, erotic dream sinking slowly into the realm of the slipstream.

As we approached in our luxury coach, we gazed, amazed by the hills of Tuscany,
The medieval town of San Gimignano arose in fragrant musk. Any...
Chance we took to look for cappuccino in the gorgeous trattorias.
Paintings of Etruscan vases; a perpetual reminder of the long and glorious
Past history of this region, visions of the Roman legions heading north
To conquer Europe. Inhabitants of Gaul and Hispania also sallied forth.
To no avail, the endless tale of plundering armies assaulting the garrisons,
Alas, dear friends, our European adventure now pales in comparison.

From the window of the hospital I gazed, unfazed, upon the city of Lucerne.
The mountain ~ Pilatus stood in ‘stark relief’ and in silent grief I turned...
My mind to contemplate and renegotiate the unlikely status of my life.
In Florence, ‘David’ had looked odd; his upper body and head jaded, in strife.
And here was I just the same, or perhaps I lieth ... I am Goliath instead?
I could find no answer, and with nothing fancier to do, I lay in my bed.
To ponder Renaissance obsession with perfect harmony of form, ratio, expression.
I’ll use other windows in the future to nurture my comprehension.

(C) C*A*L*I*C*O



C*A*L*I*C*O
(Concerned About Living in Consumer Overdrive)

My Father was an upholsterer – a species of tradesman that has almost disappeared. It’s tempting to say that they have become nearly extinct due to consumer over-indulgence in cheap mass-produced furniture. That of course is a gross exaggeration; but…this is my essay. And as the lawyer said to another in a Japanese restaurant – sosumi! Indeed, in these litigation frenzied times, that is precisely what might happen; but I digress...

Back in the days when most middle-to-upper-class families owned a ‘three piece suite’, it was a major and treasured part of a family’s possessions; right up there with the Holden and the Kelvinator ‘fridge’. It was customary that families would elect to have their three piece suites re-upholstered once the fabric had become worn and faded and/or the springs had given way. Calico was often used as lining cloth and as the material for covering the bottoms of chairs. Better quality calico (with printed designs) was used also as the main covering on chairs where a less luxurious fabric was required; more of a ‘budget’ fabric. Calico, of course, is also used to produce clothing such as shirts, trousers, skirts, curtains and tents; (actually tents nowadays are made more from plastics) and much more.

Actually, it’s irrelevant whether calico, chaff bag or cheesecloth was used to cover chair bottoms. The interesting thing is that these days, people are more likely to abandon the furniture rather than have it repaired. Opp-shops are full of shoddily made furniture – usually compressed pine board filled with cheap foam and stapled together and covered with plasticised artificial fabric. The rationale would appear to be: why have a lounge suite repaired when brand new flat-packs are readily obtainable from Ikea? This mass-produced cheaply made furniture is also to be found at places like Freedom and Fantastic. But they are hardly free and far from fantastic. I think Dad realised that his days were numbered. Foam rubber replaced flock and springs and hessian straps were replaced by a plasticised substitute.   

I can still see my father patiently taking an old worn-out chair apart in his ramshackle old workshop and producing something beautiful and functional in its place. After the repair work was completed and it was time to reattach the new fabric to the frame, he would empty about a handful of small upholstery blue-metal tacks into his mouth. Then taking a small hammer with a magnetic head, he would insert the end into his mouth and bring it out again with a tack on the end with the spike pointed outwards. He would immediately drive this tack through the fabric and into the wooden frame. He would simultaneously position the next tack in his mouth, using tongue and lips, so as to keep up a constant momentum. Bang...went the hammer against the frame; barely a second would elapse from one single hammer blow to the next. The sheet of calico was attached to the bottom of the chair in similar fashion.

I never saw him swallow a tack or have one stick into his mouth. He did say, however, that it took quite a lot of practise to be able to do this at speed. It is probably another of the myriad techniques (some obviously eccentric) that have disappeared over the past half century that tradesmen utilised to carry out their particular skill. I did attempt to do this several times myself but I found the ‘Houdini’ like skill of manipulating tacks in my mouth to be almost impossible. Dad discouraged me from following in his footsteps. He wisely foresaw that I lacked the physical strength that was required at various times for moving furniture. And of course, like all fathers, he wanted a better standard of living for his son. Hence better education equated to less physical labour. Little did he know that I too would bang things for a living. He banged nails into furniture and carpets to floors and I bang drums and other percussion. Incidentally, music is one of the most labour intensive occupations; ironic wouldn’t you say?

Interestingly, some of my drum gear used to be wrapped in calico when transporting from one place to another and I’ve still got his little magnetic hammer stored in the garage somewhere...  

© At Another Time…



© At Another Time…

 
At a fevered pitch, the world attempts still to enrich uranium up to 235.
At the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month...will we still survive?
‘At Last’ is an impassioned song, delivered so strongly by the impeccable Etta James.
At another time, on another occasion, there will be persuasion to participate in games.
At a standstill, the whirling dervishes were curling their moustaches with great abandon.
‘At My Desk’ sat Charlie Chuckles who darkly coloured drawings that little children fashioned.
‘At the Cross’ is an English hymn, when devotees on a whim, sing exulted praises to their messiah.
At the meditation centre, I had a dream I was a centaur galloping and neighing to the music of a choir
At the ashram, Andris sat cross-legged at Mangrove yoga as he strove to make some sense of it all.
At one with nature? No, we are at two and nothing we can now do will reverse the planet’s fall.
At the bicentennial rally, briefly I got pally with cross-gendered protestors in Hyde Park in ’88.
At the bottom of the garden, without a ‘beg your pardon’, came fairies, hobgoblins and dykes incarnate.
At the battle of the sexes, I was struck in the solar plexus by a person of an ambiguous disposition.
At the third stroke it was apparent I was a new bloke; no need to take heed of emotional ammunition.

At the beginning, perhaps we thought that we were winning the war on world poverty.
At best it was a token gesture; a cynical brokered device to defuse adverse publicity.
At the coal face there was always a race to have a face as black as balsamic vinegar.
At the trivia night, though we had less wrong than right; it was not enough for a voucher for dinner.
At the apex was the diva who recorded the best version of ‘Fever’; of course... she was Peggy Lee.
At twilight, you’ll just hear her singing when lights are low; always a treat for you and me.
At the looking glass stood Alice, who leapt in with no malice, and stormed the red palace of the queen.
At the hospital I had an inhospitable encounter with a physical fitness trainer who ruled supreme.
At another time and place, I’ll fall flat upon my face, heaving like a whale upon a beach.
‘At my command, I’ll have you stand and take it like a man – remember the whip’s within my reach.’
At my wild erratic fancy, an image comes of Clancy – it’s a deliberate misquote so’s to use another ‘at’.
At my knee I have an old banjo-ukulele, I like to strum from time to time and scare the cat.
At the conclusion of this verse, you could say I’ve written far worse – but after all, who really cares?
At least it mentions ‘fever’; at worst it’s like a blunt meat cleaver – chopping up ideas, my dears that I now have shared!

© Bower Bird



© Bower Bird
 
Some call it rubbish or garbage, waste or trash.
Others call it refuse, debris, litter, junk...
But I live with a woman, who instead sees only cash,
She’s Steptoe’s offspring – a rag ‘n’ bone queen;
She keeps it all in a trunk...

And in boxes, bags and carryalls in the garage and the shed.
It’s in all the cupboards and the wardrobia;
In the hall and pantry and a large part of my head!
She’s Second-hand Rose – in preloved clothes;
A fear of newness - Cainotophobia.

She knows all the op-shops in cities and towns.
The junk shops and antiques and garage sales;
She knows by instinct when a business closes down.
She’s the original liquidator – a Bower Bird;
Just manages to keep out of gaol.

She found an old chandelier in a box in the street:
Dirty, disfigured and neglected.
Took it home, spruced up and rewired it came up a treat!
She’s a shrewd negotiator; she took it to a market.
Made more dough than anyone suspected...

In addition she sells knitwear, beads, lemons, trinkets,
Old toys to old boys (she has strange friends).
Sand to the Arabs if she could risk it.
She’s a picker with her eyes all a flicker,
A complete eccentric who avoids all the trends.

I can’t complain, she keeps me in T-shirts...
Jeans, jumpers and all manner of stuff.
Like books and old battered ukuleles and crap ‘til it hurts.
She has Disposophobia – she hoards like a squirrel for winter.  
At times I must tell her: Enough!

So what is rubbish? It’s hard to define...
Trash or treasure, merchandise or muck?
She finds stuff and uses it, keeps her amused for a time.
She even collected me who’d been manacled before.
I’ll be sold on the stall myself next week – I’ve run out of luck!

© At a Loose End...



© At a Loose End...


At the third stroke, it will be 9.54 and 10 seconds and my lady reckons it’s time for tea.
At the end of the day who can say what the outcome of the next election will be.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning, fawning regret, will we remember them?
At the final bell in the afternoon shall we spoon with the crème de la crème?
At times hard to handle; I am out of control and quite impossible am I – pity me.
At the 1972 Irish sheep dog trials, with smiles, I asked, ‘How many were found guilty?’
At the Star Hotel, all’s not well; the patrons are not happy ‘cause the beer’s gone flat.
At the stroke of twelve fair Cinderella, lost her feller, at a long weekend in Ballarat.
At night the trees aren’t sleeping ‘though the birds aren’t cheeping and so the hounds do bray.
At the crack of dawn when the dew on the lawn gives way to the promise of a fine winter’s day.
At the traffic lights there’s a momentary contemplation; alienation surrounds me on all sides.
At the final bell, it will be impracticable to know if what I’ve written is valid or contrived.

At the third stroke, it will be 11 am precisely and wisely we retreat to the terrace by the roses.
At the end of the rainbow you may find the Land of Oz, simply because, your partner proposes.
At the end of the street where the waters meet is a lake beside the hanging marsh
At the end of a love affair, recriminations come to bear upon an idyllic now turned harsh.
At the periphery, life is so slippery, fragile, transient; precarious yet serene.
At the movies, life is so groovy! Forget all your troubles by the silver screen.
‘At the Codfish Ball’ with Shirley Temple: a memorable song and dance with Buddy Ebsen.
At the end of the universe, although perverse, it’s rumoured there’s a restaurant to make mess in.
‘At the Castle Gate’, I must relate, was the theme for ‘The Sky at Night’ – a bright impression.
At the present time; at the moment; at this juncture: all will function as the same expression.
At a café in Casablanca; at the markets at Salamanca; at a pub in Parramatta – we say this ‘n’ that.
At a glance, you will look askance at this meaningless dance of sentences; starting with an ‘at’.
 At arm’s length when you read what’s before you; I would implore you not to break the spell.
At an educated guess, even though I won’t confess...oh, alright – it’s a mess! It’s clear I’ll be exposed at the final bell!