A collection of twelve short poems never more than thirty-six words long. From subjects such as friends, middle-age, still being cool despite the former, lies, food, family, cats, being rude, tradition and more!
With thanks to EVJF GREG for use of the image. Continue reading
I thought (assumed) it would be straightforward enough to find a picture of a tree to match the image written of below. No. Not a single image capturing the forthcoming description; the closest being one alone on a horizon looking horribly like the default desktop image for Windows XP.
It was the height of summer and the tree in question stood on a small bushy bank, rising tall and well above the hedge below. Its leaves were so plentiful and lush that not a hint of branch was visible—an aspect integral to the below—despite being able to see sky through the odd gap here and there. The sensible thing would’ve been to take a picture of my own, but in resisting the march of the smart phone, I’ve had to use an photo—lovely, it must be said—that doesn’t match the image conveyed.
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Following on from Fern Stone’s last guest post, where misogyny was taken to task, the poem that ‘started’ it all.
On top of the sexism, there was also the by comparison minor failure to recognise someone else’s art as a finished piece and appreciate it as it should be beheld.
In The Medusa Protocol II what constitutes art is central to the conversation at Kirsty/Medusa’s apartment; ‘how alike a painting of a bowl of fruit is to a real bowl of fruit doesn’t reveal the first thing about how good the art is,’ etc. Both there and previously here (Brigitte Bardon’t: Radio Songs; a Review) I’ve quoted Martin Creed:
“My work is about fifty per cent what I make of it and fifty per cent what people make of it. Meanings are made in people’s heads. I can’t control them.”
For my first poetic verse of the year, a dabble in the traditional; love:
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A short story about the memories a beautiful summer can bring. Continue reading
N. P. Ryan 