Superior the knowing human glance that dreams, in lightly jostling verticals, ideas that make the candelabras dance, the whitened tips of candle flames that call to mind a burning icy chalice raised beneath the sky’s acceptance. Over time these flowers were led in evolution’s ways to make their fine survival death-defying. A blind
i.m. Edward King (1862-1951) The painting looks a bit off, wonky walls splay from the vertical, the roof is gone. Light streams from between colonnades like flames. It might be sunbeams through the guildhall’s ribs. Six incendiaries torched the building, so hot the copper cupola melted. Records, art work, furniture: all gutted, The
i.m. Edward King (1862-1951) You’d hope, so close to St Thomas’s church it would be safer, but they bombed it flat, straight up. Edward King had time to paint it, like those Western film stages, all frontage but nothing behind, except the rubble. He painted quick, before they tore it down. It’s a
By Helen Larham I have always loved him despite his neglect so when I stepped out onto the sea he bore my full weight, everything: All those times I had ventured in and they had laughed at my frantic back stroking and butterflying like a frog. My woollen costume expanding in the water corrugating,
By John Pearson I am the man-length canvas pulled out of store, strung between grey bulkheads ready to still the pitch and roll of any ship. I am a solitary place a cocoon to relieve the last watch’s weariness. I am a lying sick bed and even a second skin wrapped around a dead sailor.
By Suzanne Toogood Drink wine, beer, spirits that cheer, go on a bike ride, watch the tide, admire Gay Pride, read a book, be spooked by a spook, try not to look, don’t get hooked. Go to the zoo, catch flu, listen to the blues, sew, cook, spy a rook, or a crow,
By John Pearson New Road, place of the Doll’s Hospital with Jack Grant Racing to Parham and Sons furniture removals shifting towards Marriott’s, upholsterers, lino and carpet dealers. Mile End School of Motoring driving people to the New Road Wine Store and the Salutation taking in the sweet scent of Madam’s Blooms.
By John Pearson On used scraps of board, paint brush strokes made their mark – the silent aftermath of a city scarred, blitzed, battered and burned; rubble piled high in streets, glass splinters, heaps of plastered bricks, floor-boards, door frames – decades of honest Portsmouth dust. Away from war-damage you painted your St
By Dale M Chatwin The cold chills my bones like hypodermic needles scratching stone. I rose from the gutter, thoughts fractured and cluttered, made my way back home, uninterrupted. The streets were deserted, the wind howled. The sound was a choir of souls, lamenting their former selves, anguished they roam, through purgatory, their home. Now it
By Maggie Sawkins, Star & Crescent’s Poetry Editor. The fir cone I picked from a Corsican forest, carried across an ocean nestled between balls of socks, has fallen from the grate and rests where it meets my gaze as I pose upside down in my daily practice. I notice how it makes the perfect mandala,