The grey monotony of
that disappear into the pixels of
thick layered brush strokes
when you get up close;
a painting of a photograph
of a painting
hard lines in whites and greys.
ii. Romantic land
– and seascapes
retaken to grey tones
to dots and dashes.
Not a wholeness or glory
no terror no storm
but a small portion of the folding earth’s surface
or a planet-wide sea.
The reality of monotony
the monotony of reality
the soulless patterns of secular landscapes.
Angles, lines and deep black holes
where the shadows fall.
iii Painting paint.
Whole canvasses of grey.
Unrelenting, the art turning inwards
until there is nothing but its material.
Or black and white splodges,
to be pulled into streams of
until the canvas is thick with
long grey ribbons
wrapped around each other
in nothingless patterns.
Ulrika Meinhoff emerges in triptych:
From blurred obscurity, out of focus,
wanting to say something to us who cannot quite see or hear her…
To the half-demented smile and fanatic eyes alive,
The light half-catching the left-side of her face
Too late as she moves right out of the frame
Leaving a shadow on the wall …
To the clear light of her martyrdom,
exiting with head hung and shoulders straight,
only the noose missing
from that exact pose of her last dealings with fate,
the fate of those who try to change the world.
He paints her again
hanged in pitiful grey blur,
while a dark shadow –
a large face? a cloak? a curtain?
the darkness that was always there –
moves steadily in from the left of the canvas.
The Music of the Gun