Collaboration. Fifth Photo.

I'm late in updating the blog. This one was done a while ago.
Dave sent over a strangely haunting  and intriguing photograph of a rather aged orchid. My first thoughts when studying the photograph were that the position of its petals reminded me of human limbs, with the graceful poise of a ballet dancer. This vibrant image contrasted with the obvious onset of decay and I felt that the orchid was dancing and dying.
    At the time I had been watching the awful news about the Boston Marathon bombing atrocity. The fairly explicit filming of trauma with so many people losing limbs reminded me greatly of my days as a critical care nurse in the Intensive Care unit. The noise of the vast array of technical equipment in an ICU can be almost deafening and any search of Critical Care literature will reveal that on recovery patients have reported the experience as akin to torture. Many suffer Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Sometimes we have to ask whether we are extending the living or the dying.  When it came to writing a poem in response to Dave's photo the issues of  'moral' and immoral 'assault' combined with the 'dancing and dying' theme and resulted in the following poem-  'Intensive Care Cantata'.

Intensive Care Cantata

This bizarre orchestra beats staccato tuneless tunes

for far too long.

The noise goes on and on.

Strings sigh discordant notes through tubes

to my unyielding lungs

and the plucking percussion of the inotropes

preludes the monitor’s song.

Allegro.

The woodwind moan of toxic blood

hisses through filters

and comes back cleansed, to my heart

that beats a battuta,

then counts the broken chords.

Quietly now,

at last,

the doom laden boom of dark brass begins,

Allargando.

The riotous choir of red alarms starts to sing,

Altissimo.

Crescendo.

Frantic hands work on this withered skin

and wasted frame.

Again.

They will not let me be.

They won’t stop trying.

But finally I’m free,

see how I’m dancing.

Now I’m dancing

and dying.

After sending Dave the poem he told me that the photo is called 'The Dancer' and is from a series entitled 'Faded Glory'. 

He notes in his blog …

 'I titled the ensuing photograph The Dancer being a literal description of what I saw, what I was trying to represent with the photograph. I think I also chose the title, at least subliminally, to help viewers understand what was represented. My tutor for PWDP once commented that I should not worry too much about producing conceptual work as  it is surprising how many people will understand the intent but  I suspect that I am still nervous that my intentions will be misunderstood.'

I think it's fair to say that he need have no worries on that score!

Collaboration. Fourth photograph.

Dave's fourth photo is 'Derwent'.

This is the first that has resonated in a more personal manner, evoking very specific memories because Keswick was a favourite haunt for many years. My unexpected response reminded of the subject of 'photo-elicitation' that I researched whilst studying for my post-grad diploma in Advanced Practice during my nursing career some years ago.
   Of course in the absence of pathological memory loss it would be pretty much expected that a variety of things would evoke personal memories but I was surprised that simply viewing (someone who is effectively) a stranger's photograph immediately transported me back to the minutiae of actual conversations and experiences that I hadn't even thought about for years. This is the poem that I wrote in response to 'Derwent'.

Catbells and Iced cakes.

Catbells,  Claire said. Easy. A little hill - a stroll.

We saw she’d lied again

as it rolled above us like a cliff face.

We five try our best to pace ourselves, but still,

half way up we need to rest.

Tess wants those things that climbers use,

-Tampons she says.

Crampons tuts Claire.

We laugh,

and laugh some more.

We laughed a lot then.

We’re scrabbling near the top on hands and knees

when Swiss family Robinson catch us

and pass us,

And eight year old Henry in Meindls

skips by, carrying his compass,

the weight of his rucksack surely double

that of ours.

Wordless and breathless

we begin to giggle

like schoolgirls.

Purple faced schoolgirls with crow’s feet.     

           

Along the ridge we stop.

on top of the world.

We sit there on black plastic bin bags

sipping hot coffee

in cold, cold air.

Sharing French Fancies

my friends gently mock me

for bringing Mr Kipling’s to Keswick.

Time passes, tides turn.

Laughter seems less these days.

And way down here

at sea level,

your Derwent shines from my screen,

and carries me back

to Catbells.

And Keswick,

and coffee

in cold,

cold air.

Collaboration. Third Photograph.

This poem also incorporates the following Exercise; Write 2 short poems with free metre and making different use of rhyme.

Here is Dave's third photo.

I was drawn to this one immediately. It evoked thoughts of of warmth, security, comfort and familiarity. Cosiness. This led me to think of the senses, the sounds and scents that might accompany such a place. The lighting suggested intimacy and nostalgia. I decided that this was a bedroom door and began thinking about whose room it was and about long term relationships in general. I was reminded, and probably influenced by the recent discussion on the Creative Writing student's forum about David Malouf's poem Stars.  I've copied the poem and my own part in the discussion here:

Stars.

The stars have so far to go
alone or in harness
across a window pane.

Hour after hour tonight
I’ve journeyed with them, steady
the waves of your breath.

Dark space between our beds;
on the table a full tumbler
splits the light of stars

to stars, or floats
a column of dead water,
dead sky. From centuries

off, out of the reign
of one of nineteen pharaohs
a planet’s dust, metallic,

alive, is sifted down,
hovers in a bright
arc upon your cheek.

Miraculous! I lean
across the dark and touch it,
you smile in your sleep.

How far, how far we’ve come
together, tumbling like stars
in harness or alone

The sparseness of this poem condenses the strong emotion, making it more powerful than a straightforward literal depiction might have done. I wonder if he is writing about a specific relationship here? The tenderness of the final stanza really conveys his emotion but I get a feeling of being compelled, like the stars, to a specific path. A taboo relationship perhaps? 
    To me he evokes a sense of aloneness in this poem which is a paradox to the idea of being 'harnessed'. But the use of 'harnessed' as opposed to an alternative adverb to describe being together is itself telling. To me 'harnessed ' implies lack of choice. As Jo says 'harnessed and alone' is such a resonant line. His repetition of the idea of distance, between the stars, between the beds, between the stars and the narrator, leads me to think of isolation despite the proximity of someone else. The stars are always within each other's orbit but never touch.
     I was completely flummoxed with the 'Nineteen pharoahs' and all I could find about the reference was the 'hardening of the heart' in Exodus. Relevant or not ? I have no idea.
     I agree with Miriam about his implication of hopelessness here and think it is effectively illustrated in the references to dark space and the way the sky and the stars become lifeless when reflected or captured in the glass.
     It seems that one of Malouf's formative sexual experiences occurred during an astronomy session (http://www.clivejames.com/books/meaning/malouf) and this could be reflected in the intensity with which he relates to the stars and his companion during this night of insomnia. One has to wonder why can't he sleep. He shows the insomnia very effectively with the passing time indicated by the stars having 'so far to go across a window pane' Very eloquently put and clearly conveyed. 
    There is no indication that his sleeping neighbour is anything other than a platonic friend but the combined result of the beautifully depicted imagery and the strong emotion speaks of yearning to me, which makes me think of unrequited love.

 It's clear that the idea of closeness and distance within relationships was on my mind, and along with the lovely lighting of Dave's subject and the evocation of familiarity, security, senses and sensuality I wrote the following poem.

Old Flames.

The flame stutters, dims in the night,

spilling vanilla scented smoke

that will linger, come the light

of the morning.

She draws the curtains, makes the bed

as she always does. Each day.

Smooths out the indent of his head

with hands that wear an aged woman’s skin.

Some solitary nights, across a great divide,

they seek a century of space,

so take their sides.

Touching, if at all, only their toes.

Some nights though,

still, they will be gilded, 

suffused by the softest amber glow,

of old flames and candle-light.

Collaboration. Second photograph.

This poem also incorporates the following Exercise; Write 2 short poems with free metre and making different use of rhyme.

This is Dave's second photo. 

I'm enjoying the opportunity this project is giving me to look at how my own responses are formed. Dave offered no caption or explanation for this photo so I'm intrigued to hear his take on it after he's read my response to it. Initially when I studied the photo there seemed to be an ethereal quality to it, almost like a fairy tale. This aspect and the boat immediately led me to think of  Edward Lear's  'The Owl and the Pussycat';

The Owl and the Pussycat

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are, you are, you are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are."

Pussy said to the Owl "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing.
O let us be married, too long we have tarried;
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring?"
Said the Piggy, "I will"
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon.
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand.
They danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

   As I read up a little about Edward Lear I learned that he 'is remembered primarily for his nonsense rhymes and limericks, but in his own lifetime he sought recognition as a landscape painter' (Harvard University Library 2003). Perusing the Harvard site (referenced and linked below) it is clear that he was extremely accomplished. Sir David Attenborough discusses his collection of Lear ornithological work here http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-20081949 . Yet another 'creative' who worked across diciplines. It seems to be a common trait.

     But to get back to Dave's photo.  It seems that the iambic meter and rhyme scheme of Lear's poem inspired me to construct a loosely rhymed and metered poem myself. However the photo itself evoked contrasting feelings in me. On the one hand the composition and his post editing resulted in a beautiful fairy-tale atmosphere, while on the other the un-natural colours were disconcerting. Perhaps in an illustration they might have proved less so but in a photograph the colours led me to think of more ominous explanations. Perhaps I expect to see truth in photographs? Or try to equate them with reality more than I would with illustration or drawing? Whatever the deeper reasons for perspective the un-natural prettiness of the colours caused some disquiet.

    In addition to this there is currently much local debate about the building of huge nuclear waste dumps just a few miles away across the Solway in Cumbria. The two things combined to inspire my response to Dave's photo with the poem 'Geiger Counting'.

Geiger Counting.

Here is a boat without any oars

And a river of rippling ink.

Here acid water laps alkaline shores,

And poison is pretty

So pretty in pink.

You’ll find no safe harbour

No berth and no jetty,

This place is no Eden,

despite what you think.

They buried their waste in the

deep silent silos,

And poison looks pretty,

So pretty in pink.

So far I have no clear idea of what I want to do with this project but I'm erring towards the idea of revisiting the short responses at a later date and developing each poem into a finished piece of work. At the moment I see them as starting points. But Dave's photos are certainly catalysts that ignite many potential routes of inquiry. 

Dave's feedback pointed out that the use of 'they' and 'their in the lines 
'They buried their waste in the
deep silent silos'
suggested a remove and he wondered how I felt about changing it to 'we' and 'our'. Initially I agreed with him and changed it.

Geiger Counting.

Here is a boat without any oars

And a river of rippling ink.

Here acid water laps alkaline shores,

And poison is pretty

So pretty in pink.

You’ll find no safe harbour

No berth and no jetty,

This place is no Eden,

despite what you think.

We buried our waste in the

deep silent silos,

And poison looks pretty,

So pretty in pink.

 The change, although subtle, facilitated a more subjective sense to the poem, making the narrator complicit and remorseful. But on further reflection I felt that the objective, slightly detached tone of the impartial observer was lost along with the ironic observation that toxins can look attractive.I felt that the irony became somewhat cynical. So ultimately I think I prefer the original version but also decided to present both options here. It's interesting how such a slight alteration in the wording can totally change the perspective and the intended meaning of a poem.

References.

Harvard University Library. 2003. http://oasis.lib.harvard.edu/oasis/deliver/~hou01475 Accessed 09/02/2013.

Lear E. (1870) The Owl and the Pussycat  available at (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171941 accessed 9/102/13

Collaboration

Inspired by the work of the poet Ted Hughes and the photographer Fay Godwin, my fellow OCA student Dave Whenham (alias Fatherpie) is currently undertaking research into the relationship between words and pictures as part of his photography degree. This is is a subject that has always interested me with poems often having been inspired by photographs, including some of my poems here on the blog (for example the themed sequence 'From the Family Album'). I have embarked on a collaborative project with him whereby I write a poem in response to his photos. This might also provides me with additional inspiration to use when writing the poems for the exercises throughout the course.

   Had I been able to follow a creative arts pathway my two subjects were to have been writing and photography and the interplay between creative disciplines would have been a major part of my studies. Although I have yet to begin an inquiry into collaborative work, I am reminded of writers who work across different media. One writer who springs to mind here is Sylvia Plath. I was introduced to Plath's poetry during my OU studies but was unaware until recently that she was a talented artist as well, as can be seen by following the link. /http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/06/14/sylvia-plath-drawings/  

   I'd like to investigate other writers / artists /photographers who work in complementary disciplines either as individuals or as part of a collaborative process so this is a great starting point for me. I rushed off to Amazon to buy a copy of the Hughes/Godwin collaboration 'Elmet' only to balk at the £73.00 price tag. I'll have to save up first. 
   
   As an aside to my creative writing studies (rather than being the integral part) this project enables me to flirt with the subject while being inspired to write, as well as informing both my writing and my photography. It seems rather one-sided at the moment with me getting the inspiration both to write and research. Not to mention the enjoyment. I hope Dave gets something from it as well.

   It began with him posting this photograph.

   On this occasion Dave gave the image a title 'Flight through the woods' and noted the following:

"the point of view and angle from which it has been taken aim to represent the POV of someone running through the woods, the overhanging branches in their face. The infrared treatment lends a spooky ethereal feel yet the brightness of the image does not necessarily suggest dark deeds ...'

   I think my own interpretation of the photo would have been along similar lines even without the explanation but I do wonder just how much Dave's words influenced my thoughts. Either way I wrote the following poem in response.

Dream State

She is unaware

of the climb from delta to dream-time.

As ancient rhythms rise in the expectant dawn,

unseeing eyes dance Saint Vitus’ dance.

Paroxysmal waves peak,

then trough,

snapping through synapses

and charging through chasms

causing chaos.

Grasping, snatching roots ensnare,

while briars and  brambles bind her tight

to hold her still,

until the panic of the stalled pursuit,

drills out the warning in her head

in vivid infrared. She knows it’s there.

It waits.

She sees.

Her suffocated screams ring silent

through the watching trees.

Oxygen depletes.

As gases group in blueing blood

she rides Krebs cycle to cognition.

Cruising from delta to beta.

At last her screams escape her with a jolt,

that hurls her from doom to the safety

of her room.

The frantic dance comes to an end,

the balm of wakefulness ascends,

and horrors slide away.

To be forgotten in the business

of the day.

   Clearly Dave's explanation had significant influence. Although he indicated that the brightness of the image 'does not necessarily suggest dark deeds'  the use of the words 'spooky' and 'flight' do and it was that suggestion that lingered with me.

   The infrared treatment that Dave describes as giving an 'ethereal' feel to the image actually made me think of dreaming. This, combined with 'spooky' and 'flight' led me towards the experience of being chased in a nightmare.

   I clustered a selection of words and thoughts related to nightmare and was surprised that the result was a collection of words associated with the physiology of dreaming (specifically R.E.M. sleep) and aerobic respiration, the latter being thought to be responsible for that sudden jolt into wakefulness. This enabled me to attempt to retain the mystery of the photograph by being somewhat obscure in my narrative ie R.E.M. described as St.Vitus Dance, riding Krebs Cycle etc.

   I wanted to convey that mute terror of a nightmare, where the dreamer can't make their cries heard until their own scream wakens them, and also the way that dreams are often forgotten despite their intensity.

   I've really enjoyed working in this way and look forward to more collaborative efforts. I'm especially interested to see where Dave goes with it.