Brook Street Gallery Exhibition
Wednesday, 28 June 2017 at 19:38
End-of-Year exhibition at Brook Street Gallery
Wednesday, 28 June 2017 at 20:02
Our End-of-Year Show continues at Brook Street Gallery, Prospect Shopping Centre, Hull HU2 8PP. The gallery is open Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays 1- 5 pm. Here's my most recent cityscape, a view over the Deep, the River Hull and out across the Humber. It's one of several of my cityscape paintings in the show along with lots of other good work by my colleagues.
Voyage for Solo Trumpet
Monday, 15 May 2017 at 19:52
Some poems from our performance of Voyage for Solo Trumpet with composer Deborah Pritchard and trumpeter Simon Desbruslais.
The sequence starts with Hull and its maritime history and uses some of the poems in Pilgrim Tongues to complement "Neap", the poem I originally wrote to celebrate the Voyage statue. The composer Deborah Pritchard wanted the piece to end with the twin Voyage statue in Vik, Iceland. I added a poem from Trans "From the Anglo-Saxon" to give a sense of northern seafaring, and then wrote "Vik Triptych" to conclude.
From the Anglo-Saxon
The ceaseless seas.
Now, truth to tell, that old long song’s a solo
competing with the shriek of gulls, the curlew’s cry.
It tongues those primal etymologies
which discover travail in travel, destiny in stone.
It polishes the lapidary eye
to the challenge of a ring banded by horizon,
reckons ceaseless seas to put woman on the moon.
Word-beat and sea-slap.
Well, there’s always one grizzling at the prow’s rib,
wretched, retching, outwearing wood,
as the back-beat of it all slaps ankles and planking.
That that’s just word-salt, sea-slop,
heart’s bilge is well understood
– but is there another, whose watch is endless, uneasy,
whose nest lurches through the dark high heavens?
Mast-creak and sail-crack.
One whose eyes are worn blue,
sharpened thin on the horizon’s whetstone?
Ignore the forlorn bittern, the stormy petrel broken in the rigging.
Take in your stride the rolls and groans
and juddering whale-backed blackness.
Slip reefs around your weird of knotty fate,
beware sea-chests shifting across the deck’s salt-licked slate.
God-fear in exile.
One thing must break or rip or blunt another,
untangle in wind or be cut through.
This game of life is paper, scissors, stone.
The glint of surf betrays the reef,
iron caroms through woodrot, leaves canvas and skin unsewn.
When he has weathered much, grown wise in winters,
a man must fathom his own life, its weirdness;
reckon keel space; know the whale’s cold road,
ocean-paths, the glittering magnetic shoal,
the drag of his barnacled soul.
Too tedious to recount all this at length,
too late to sing the long song now, simply say:
God Gave man a soul because He trusts in his strength
…because he trusts in His strength.
With salt in their sea-cloaks, nosed out, west
into the sun’s sinking, whet of wind in the shrouds,
led by lodestone, dead reckoning, or those wild
constellations ghosting shoals in the cold high dark.
Past sea-pig, islands ever sea-girt with sadness,
the heart’s reefs where some shipwrecked to mermaids, their Circes,
heard seaweed voices twine round thole pins, minds
seafogged, brilliant and blind. Shortwave: the charts’ braille
bouncing off the sky. A smokestack’s distant belch;
foghorn saxophony jazzing the engine-room’s huge rhythm-section.
All thrumming back-beat in a big wounded bellow of steel,
sonar pinging high beyond Beaufort’s twelve-note scale.
Still the hawser’s anguish, the squeal of rubber, judder:
the joy as we step down wet ribbed wood
and our seaboots trap this harbour’s spinning ball.
What washes up along the strand:
nets, pots, crab-claws, plastic, tin, glass, wood,
things long lost, salt-bleached and found
by fulmar, stormy petrel; sea-wrack and wreckage
from ships that broke on rocks, or ran aground,
little funerary mounds rising from the sand.
And now, above black basalt, jetsam, this tall bronze.
Is there some hard shadow to this weathered skipper?
Sister perhaps, herself a waiting bride
who daily scanned that hazy band where sea and sky
may hide her returning man, deckhand, her true first mate,
or leave her still, virgin widow, unmanned help-meet
hanging on to the idea of one wholesome hull,
faithful and stubborn as limpet, barnacle?
It stands worn thin by wind:
strong as hunger, angled to get the hang
of coming calm or brewing storm.
By weird and wind, cuts like a prow
into what will befall us all.
Leave all in your wake; then rudder, tack.
Lord save our souls when waves
drop deep beneath us, fast as a running grave.
Forever peering out, through all the bells, alone,
all is worn down to green bronze bone;
on watch, for further and further land,
for what’s still beyond all that sea,
beyond the breakers on the other side,
that mirror image of shifting black volcanic sand.
Voyage for Solo Trumpet, premiere 1 May 2017
Tuesday, 2 May 2017 at 20:31
The premiere of Voyage: the collaboration with the composer Deborah Pritchard and the trumpeter Simon Desbruslais went really well yesterday. Luckily the weather held, and it was sunny, if a litttle fresh as the breeze came up the Humber and played aound the Steinunn Thórarinsdóttir statue.
There was a good audience as it linked into John Grant's North Icelandic Flux music festival, with bands from Iceland. The performance was streamed lived on the Hull City of Culture website.
Here's a Facebook clip with Simon playing and Mary Aherne and me reading poems from my sequence:
Welcome to my blog
Friday, 22 January 2010 at 11:26