A poem for Thursday...Buying jewellry on the Goan beaches...

Life on the Beach

I saw the woman
from Orissa with
clips in her black hair
and many ringing
ornaments. Silver a plenty
 through her nose and
a mark of faith between her
 eyes. I bought the
neck piece from her there
as she with shrug
of shoulders told me
of it's age and where
the art had started out

Now oil and gas have
driven her to this warm
Indian riviera beach
to sell the culture
of her tribe in far-off
 Rajasthan.


Times Business pages..."Vedanta thrives in India despite a rocky ride"...
The  Dongria Kondha tribe protest against open-cast mining in the Niyamgiri Hills...eastern India.

New Work.

I seem to need a starter in my art.

"Starter for ten"...I hear you cry!

A muse, a book, an exhibition, a poem.

A visit to the Tate in Liverpool

or the Walker.

I saw an exhibition of Chinese artists just before Christmas.

The purity of the line and the meagreness of the palette was scrumptious.

So in need of something tangible I pulled out this book from the shelf.

I bought it in a second hand book shop quite a while ago and had a bit of a look from time to time.

All the artists are of the 20th c.

Li K'e-jan: Poets under Trees with Falling Leaves.

( describes this perfectly)

Me: Shell lying on the Beach in Goa.

( does it work?)

Lin Feng-mien: Herons in the Reeds.

( So few brush strokes).

Me: Driftwood Root with Stones Encased.

( did I get a bit too precious?)

Lin Feng-mien: Landscape with Yellow Trees.

Me: Driftwood with Hole - Found on the Bay.

(well I really did)

Lin Feng-mien: Actor in the Classical Opera.

Me : Large Driftwood in the Shape of Hiroshige's Wave.

( the name Hiroshige is classical!)

Why do the title's of the Chinese artists have such an authentic ring to them,

While mine might seem a little contrived I'm asking myself.

Ah well, I could call them....

Driftwood I

Driftwood II

Driftwood III

and Shell I

In fact I think I have, on the flickr site!!

A Poem for Thursday.

Indian Cattle

With soft faces

and docile eyes

they view us.

Lumbering

on dusty red roads. 

Huddling together

in the dusky sundown.

No sacred cows

alone

each one owned

and needed.

Yet no field owned

though needed.

White taxis swerve

and sound

their raucous klaxons.

Gentle beasts

sway a little

and the cars pass by.

Red dust is thrown up

from rutted roads

and

long black bovine lashes

flick it away

as they have done

for ever.