October 11th

the old hand traces

frail outlines in the wood grain

a kiss in the fields

We went to the Edvard Munch exhibition at the Tate. I love his work. I’m planning to write a longer review on my other blog, so I wont linger on such terms as ‘melancholy’ and ‘troubled’, but suffice to say I’m so glad we caught the tail end of this beautiful exhibition.

There were some incredible pieces of work there, but the one which moved me the most was perhaps a modest piece Munch worked on in the last few months of his life, he was 80 at the time. In 1943 he made a woodcut called “Kiss in the Field”. As was Munch’s style, it was a title and motif/style he’d repeated over the decades of his career. But this one was so feint as to almost be invisible, the grain of the wood was prominent, the spectral outline of the image just about recognisable amongst the powerful shapes within the wood itself. I could imagine his frail old hands working. It made me feel sad.

(photo I took from the exhibition catalogue)

July 31st

melancholy sinks

and a smile slowly burgeons

the eyes speak mischief

Looking forward to my couple of days off, cleared the decks, got up to date with my work, put my out of office on … and relax.

July 6th

my insignificance

in the majesty of stars

a lonely vigil

I popped into the new Edvard Munch exhibition at the Tate Modern after work. I rushed through as I wanted to get a taste for it, as a member I can visit anytime for a more leisurely (although leisurely may be the wrong word) visit at a later date. Munch is one of my favourite painters. The collection they’ve pulled together for this exhibition is great. There is an intense loneliness about his work.

For example, Starry Night. Initially it seems this is a celebration of stars and clear crisp nights. And indeed it is. But what appears to be the artists shadow thrown across the ground just speaks of loneliness and melancholy to me. How we are alone. It moves me. As does most of his work.

(pic from Tate website)

June 6th

Dark Carnival masques

cease their work and look skywards

as fire balloons rise

Goodbye Ray Bradbury, you were always and will remain an inspiration to me.

(photo credit from la times website)

June 1st

 

the scent of jasmine

cicadas sing in the yard 

shooting stars kind smiles

This one talks of memories of Cyprus. Sitting out late, talking, happy times, watching the sky and being so excited as a little boy, when I saw a shooting star for the first time.

One of my aunts died. She was a lovely generous giving lady. Though she had no children of her own, she looked after everyone else with an uncomplaining unconditional duty of love. A refugee (like almost all of my family) who never returned to her home village. Behind the happiness, there was always a deep melancholy, a sense of yearning for the familiar, for even happier times, for old neighbours now scattered by war, for home, for the mountains meeting the sea and the village nestled on the coast. Sadly, my parents generation is slowly getting ill, passing on. As the youngest of all my cousins by far it throws mortality at me, the transience of our time on earth stark and ugly.

February 24th

 

Old twisted peat cart,

I followed your buried tracks,

As you sink and rust.

 

In the moors there is an old discarded peat cart, when I first lived in the area it actually looked like a peat cart, but over the years it has slowly deteriorated and sunk into the peat it used to carry to the edge of the moor, where it would be unloaded. I wanted to capture a sense of melancholy about it, everything returns to the earth at some point.

I don’t know how old the cart is, but peat extraction was still an industry in the area until the 1960s. The location of the peat cart is in one of the wettest areas of Flitwick moor. It’s quite hard to see in this photo, but I wanted show how wet the area is. There are a lot of silver birches in the moors as well, as can be seen by the tree on the left.

A closer view of the peat cart.

And finally a photo of this part of the moor, with another silver birch, it is exceptionally peaty and wet here in winter, so when I’m running, I have to walk through, making sure to not roll my ankle or lose half my leg in a mucky peat puddle! Anyway, it was a beautiful day today, the woods and moors were full of bird song. Their battle to establish territory has begun.

January 26th

Heavy lids, aching,

Fitful sleep, dark dreams, dark clouds,

Keep writing, thinking.

 

I felt and feel rather ill today. Had only a few hours sleep, interrupted by sore throat and a raging thirst. Was meant to go up to Yorkshire for work, but I couldn’t possibly do it. So I worked from home. A long old day too. This morning, I could feel the cold boring into me, my brain in some sort of fuzzy cocoon, sheltered and distant.

The dark clouds just added to this feeling of melancholy. I was in a bit of a daze, but there is a kind of perverse enjoyment in this feeling too. I feel creative and different when I’m ill. Sadness brings out the best in my writing. Shame my creative attention was distracted by my day job, this was a day I could have happily curled up in bed with a laptop and did a bit of stream of consciousness. Sadly, despite the big build up, today’s Haiku isn’t the best. Never mind. It’s not even the end of the first month and I’m struggling. But working long hours with only a laptop screen and small window to look out of (and Loose Women on ITV when I have my lunch) doesn’t give me much inspiration.

I hope I’m better tomorrow, I must’ve had 5000 calories today. Need fresh air and exercise. And sleep, blessed sleep.