Sea of mystery

A work of art rests on the rocks.
The ocean placed it there –
High above the waterline
As though it sought to share

The beauty of a simple thing
The sea thought it might keep –
A treasure formed by wind and tide
And surging currents deep –

This work of art, this tree stump
Turned and honed and shaped
Takes pride of place upon the rocks
In shells and seaweeds draped.

Some stroll the sandy coastlines
To another ocean’s beat
And gaze in awe as wavelets
Scatter diamonds at their feet –

While liquid silver dolphins
Rise and dive and twist
And gulls etched high up in the sky
Soar above the mist …

The work of art is on the shore
As though on proud display –
But the cove is small and hidden:
And no one walks this way.




John McCallum 2009

Symbiosis

On The Son of Man by Magritte


René, I visited you once in a dream
but you, near death, failed to recognise me
– your best-known creation.
No matter. We’re the same, we two.
Beneath my varnish
each layer of pigment carries your DNA.
Each stroke of paint invests me
with your personality and the burden
of your ambition.

In my canvas world, I wear my bowler hat
as proudly as if I had been born and died.
Like you, yet not like you.
And life—or not-life—has its compensations.
When people remember Magritte it’s my image
that inhabits their mind, not yours.
It’s enough.


Cathy McCallum

Two poems on Art

Instant Fish

Instant Fish
by Phidias!
Add water
and they swim.

Peter Porter

Following is a commentary on the poem posted on a blog:

Note: Phidias was a Greek sculptor whose statues were so realistic that
they seemed to be alive.

Porter's take on Phidias is amazingly self-referential; like the fish
being described, the poem expands and takes on layers of meaning in the
mind of the reader. In just 9 short words, Porter manages to invoke the
ideas of life as art and art as life, the meaning of representation, the
role of the viewer, even the effects of time...

(Lest anyone think that I'm reading too much into what is actually a
piece of nonsense, let me add that I thought of many of the above issues
when I first read that poem; later (much later), I read a book of
criticism which had Porter say the same things about this poem. So
there.)

thomas.

Unbalanced

Fu-I loved the green hills
And the white clouds.
Alas he died of drink.
And Li-Po
Also died drunk.
He tried to embrace a Moon
In the Yellow River.

Denis Johnston (1901-1984)

Commentary from the web:

Li Po (AD 701-62) and Tu Fu (AD 712-70) were devoted friends who are traditionally considered to be among China's greatest poets. Li Po, a legendary carouser, was an itinerant poet whose writing, often dream poems or spirit-journeys, soars to sublime heights in its descriptions of natural scenes and powerful emotions. His sheer escapism and joy is balanced by Tu Fu, who expresses the Confucian virtues of humanity and humility in more autobiographical works that are imbued with great compassion and earthy reality, and shot through with humour. Together these two poets of the T'ang dynasty complement each other so well that they often came to be spoken of as one – ‘Li-Tu' - who covers the whole spectrum of human life, experience and feeling.