This electric sun
fusing the wiring of me.
How can I not be?
photo and haiku by clinock
It has been a long winter.
Renovations have not come easily
but they have come and I’m sure
will continue to come
until I am bones in the beaks of crows.
My muse rings the changes too.
It’s a game we play, it’s called hide and seek.
There are blindfolds on both sides
and the snow has been deep
and renovations have been difficult.
But don’t hear me wrong,
there is always laughter, wonder and light,
the sparkle of space and love
as I sweep the corners clean
and imagine everything new again.
Art and poem by clinock
Painting: Winter Muse. 20 x 16”. Acrylic on canvas.
Hello everyone. The changes are obvious I think. I hope you have no problems with navigation. I am working on a separate ‘portfolio / gallery’ site just for my art. I will post the link when complete.
Renovations, actual, virtual or metaphorical are ongoing.
I am re-posting my ‘Celebration of Leo’ series from last year with some edits here and there. This constitutes a blogging summer break of sorts for me as I give my days renovating my patio and condo and preparing my art for a few local community exhibitions. Summertime, for me, is not the “lazy, hazy days” of the song but a time when I feel at the peak of my focussed energy and accomplish more than at any other time of year. In this month of my day of birth I conjure the strength and power of the lion and the subtle wisdom of the domestic cat. Under the mid-year sun and it’s heat I am more myself than I am in all other seasons.
Even though the nature of the lion is a powerful part of who I am, his domestic kin, the pussycat, is a more present and comfortable spirit that shares my days. I waver frequently between both energies.
This and the next few posts will be in honour of the Lion, in words, images and music…
Leo wall art by unknown artist, Italy. / Leo Star by clinock / British Lion painting by L D Luard. / Cat photo of Mr. Bunbury who died last year, still cherished and missed. / You Tube video by great Canadian singer, Bruce Cockburn.
A working studio becomes layered with a deep and wondrous treasure trove of raw material. When I become a camera the possibilities of framing chance encounters with surreal and inspiring compositions are limitless. This series shares my captures of random juxtapositions that caught my eye. Some I may use as source ideas for painting, but all are complete in themselves as examples of sagacious serendipity.
The scraps of writing and doodles are taken from my version of a sketchbook which consists of bits of paper I scribble on as I moodle around the studio.
Click on images for more detail.
In case I disappear here is a map of my heart,
a patched up job, repeatedly reassembled.
With a little patience it can still be understood
and if gently handled it won’t fall apart,
but please do not fold, spindle or mutilate.
Its paths and crossroads are still echoing
with songs of travelers passing through,
tears too are heard, of the wandering lost,
for though the roads are straight they are also worn
and collapsed with confusions and misdirections.
Notice how the blue of fallen sky becomes an ocean
where angels and mermaids dance in arcs of light.
I rest on these beaches when I lose myself,
cool my feet in the waves and sleep for awhile,
then I remember, this is the way back home.
And here are the greens of meadows where I lay
deep in new growth, my thrusting blossoms
seeding the verdant winds and high forests of isolation
with pollinations of laughter, longing and desire.
I smudge the map with unseen words against forgetting.
And there the golden glow of a thousand votive flames
illuminates the holy dark, recalls the first January sun,
places lamps in all the windows, engorges summer heat,
reflects itself in conjured forms of island fantasies
and shapes of full moon dreams in fields of wheat.
The signatures of red I will not hide beneath the surface,
they are its surging life and are crying for acceptance.
These bleeds of love seep through the gauze of landscape
however many bandages of colour I apply.
No compass needed here. This is a map of my heart.
torn and reassembled acrylic painting and poem by clinock