All poetry, photographs and artwork © the individual artists who can be contacted through the links below

Showing posts with label Mike Knowles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mike Knowles. Show all posts

Tuesday, 20 December 2011

shadows from the greater hill


(photo by mike knowles)
from SHADOWS FROM THE GREATER HILL

Tessa Ransford

DECEMBER 24th

(There is a theory that ‘APOLLO’ denotes a set of concepts and ideas in music, astronomy , geometry and mathermatics which was widespread in the megalithic era, linked to the Druids and later to the Pythagoreans.. The story goes that ‘Apollo’ left the shrine at Delphi in the winter months to dwell among the Hyperboreans. The suggested explanation is that the two constellations, the Lyre and the Swan, associated with Apollo, were more visible in that era in northern lands in winter. Whether the Hyperboreans can be equated with the Hebrideans is a guess, but in his poem I imagine Apollo spending a winter break on Arthurs Seat in Edinburgh, of which I have a perfect view from my flat. This poem is one of a sequence written throughout the year in 1985, looking from my widow.

Apollo winters here;
strings his lyre like stars
through clouds, like swans
brightened in the wind;
practises his geometries
scaled to our particulars,
arcs, crags, promontories.

A coiled, constricted formula
translated into sections of our landscape,
our city-weathered hill;
reduced yet refined
from Delphic drama, grandeur
or golden Minoan harmony;
his circles here, triangles,
his proportions are coded
into our alpha rock,
our liquid sky, diagonal,
and huge, cold, omega winter nights.

Monday, 19 September 2011

Golden Thread Poets read at Wordpower Bookshop in the Edinburgh Book Fringe



Chrys Salt (left) and Tessa Ransford (below) along with Pauline Prior-Pitt, also read at Wordpower Bookshop as part of the Edinburgh Bookfringe, in August 2011.

(Photographs courtesy of Mike Knowles)






Uncle Bert

Uncle Bert could fold a hanky

and make a mouse run up his arm.

One flick of his forefinger,

it vaulted his sailor tattoos

and ran up to his shoulder


Uncle Bert could make a penny disappear

then re-appear behind your ear

And whichever card you picked from the pack

he always knew which one it was

even if you changed your mind and put

the one you first thought of

back.


We’d bet all our pocket money on which cup

Aunti Cis’s thimble was under. Concentrate like hawks

as he switched them on the shiny table-top.

We always lost, however hard we watched


When Uncle Bert ran out of tricks he’d joke

Bet you’ll be glad to see the back of me’

Then with one stunning magic masterstroke

He gave his skin the slip and ceased to be.


Where had he gone? I couldn’t understand

Gone from the room without his coat

A slick and shocking sleight of hand.

Now you see him. Now you don’t.


Chrys Salt