Sometimes I look for you – new poem.

SOMETIMES I LOOK FOR YOU.

© David Milligan-Croft.

 

It’s been almost twenty years now.

 

Even still, I look for you,

Every time I visit our capital.

 

I look for you ascending great escalators,

As I descend into the labyrinth.

 

I scan the faces in crowded carriages

Looking for your headachey eyes.

 

I look for the scar

On hands that grip the rail.

 

Although you are not the purpose

Of my visit, I hope to catch a glimpse of you,

 

Among the other eight million inhabitants.

And, why on earth not?

 

It’s still better odds

Than winning the lottery.

 

And that’s what being with you

was like – winning the lottery.

The Diameter of the Bomb – Yehuda Amichai

In light of yesterday’s bombings in Boston, this poem seems all the more poignant. Thank you to Asha Mokashi for sharing it.

The Diameter of the Bomb

by Yehuda Amichai

 

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters

And the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,

With four dead and eleven wounded.

And around these, in a larger circle

Of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered

And one graveyard. But the young woman

Who was buried in the city she came from,

At a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,

Enlarges the circle considerably,

And the solitary man mourning her death

At the distant shores of a country far across the sea

Includes the entire world in the circle.

And I won’t even mention the crying of orphans

That reaches up to the throne of God and

Beyond, making

A circle with no end and no God.

How very Vermeer…

Some of you more artistically knowledgeable people will probably suggest a finer comparison than Vermeer. Rembrandt or van Eyck, perhaps?

However, I do think the composition, colour, mood and lighting of these photographs by Desiree Dolron, are exquisite enough to be compared to the great master.

They are faultless works of art.

By Desiree Dolron

 

 

 

 

August Snow – new poem.

AUGUST SNOW.

© David Milligan-Croft

 

I’d been told the climate was similar to ours,

But that was a lie.

 

Here, there was guaranteed sunshine in December

And no snow in July.

 

They had great bubbling mud pools,

Which we didn’t have in Batley.

 

And jets of hot, steaming water

That would shoot up out of the ground.

 

They even had a desert,

(albeit a small one),

Near Lake Taupo.

 

I never knew how much I’d miss snow

Until we moved to New Zealand.

 

The only snow I ever saw

Was on Mount Wanganui.

 

But that was too high

For a boy of eight.

 

One winter though – about August -

I found a small pile of snow on our back porch.

 

I was so delirious with excitement

That I ran inside to tell mam.

 

She didn’t have the heart to tell me

It was scraped from the freezer.

Cognitio, Sapientia, Humanitas.

That’s Knowledge, Wisdom, Humanity to the rest of us.

Which is the motto of The University of Manchester.

Why am I telling you this?

Well, I’ve been very remiss of late with regard to updating my blog. And the reason being is that I have recently taken up a position, at the aforementioned University, as their Head of Creative.

And, why should you give two hoots about this?

Well, you shouldn’t.

But I do have the privilege of working in a gloriously inspiring campus which I just had to share with the class because it is so beautiful.

I feel very fortunate to be treading the same cobblestones as 25 Nobel prizewinners.

Unfortunately, I don’t think they give Nobel prizes for graphic design.

Perfection

To achieve perfection takes trial and error.

If others are involved in your task, they may see your experimentation as indecision.

Ignore that gnawing urge to placate them for an easier life, and press on with your goal.

Only then, will you hope to attain something that you can be 85 – 90% satisfied with.

Sylvia Plath – In Memoriam

Sylvia Plath
October 27th 1932 – 11th February 1963

I was a few days late with my tribute to the great artist, Amedeo Modigliani. So, I decided to be a bit premature with this one to Sylvia Plath.

Poet, novelist and short story writer, Sylvia Plath committed suicide 50 years ago tomorrow.

She was married to fellow poet, Ted Hughes. And the pair had two children together, Frieda and Nicholas.

On hearing of Hughes having an affair they separated. Plath taking two year old Frieda and nine month old Nicholas with her. Five months later, with the kids tucked up in bed, she sealed the kitchen doors and windows with wet towels and put her head in the oven. She was 30 years old.

The world lost a literary colossus and prodigious talent.

Understandably, Ted Hughes came in for a lot of stick for his part in her death. Exacerbated by the fact that his second wife, Assia Wevill, (the woman he had the affair with), also committed suicide in 1969. And, even more tragically, she also took the life of their daughter, Alexandra.

It’s not my place to vilify Hughes, as I don’t know what went on in their relationship. What I do know, is that he was an outstanding poet too.

Plath’s daughter, Frieda went on to become a successful poet, children’s author and artist. (I think she lives in Australia now.)

Nicholas became a marine biologist. But, like his mum, suffered from depression. And sadly, he also took his own life in 2009 by hanging himself.

The world would have been a better, richer place if she had remained in it.

Here is one of my favourite poems; I love the way the lines break, sending one stanza cascading into the next:

EDGE

by Sylvia Plath

The woman is perfected
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

What a smile – RIP Sylvia Plath

Addendum

Here’s a lovely little article from the Academy of American poets about

the things that Sylvia Plath loved.

Addendum II

The days before death. Read this honest, harrowing and heart-felt account, by Jillian Becker, about Sylvia Plath’s final days. (I know, as a parent, that I would’ve felt a little put-out at being a nursemaid.) Thank you to Jo Harley Hynes for sharing it with me.

Only the Truly Lost – Charles Bukowski, 1970.

The Boating Party – with Eoin Coveney

Luncheon of the Boating Party, 1881. By Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

Well, it’s been a while…

Welcome to the first Boating Party interview of 2013.

The Boating Party is a series of interviews with writers, artists, photographers, filmmakers, musicians, sculptors, illustrators, designers and the like.

In times of economic hardship, the Arts are usually the first things to be axed. But, in my view, the Arts are the most important aspect of our civilisation. Without the arts, we wouldn’t have language or the written word. Without the arts, we have no culture. Without culture, we have no society. Without society, we have no civilisation. And without civilisation, we have anarchy. Which, in itself, is paradoxical, because so many artists view themselves as rebels to society.

To me, artists aren’t rebels, they are pioneers.

And perhaps, most importantly; without the Arts, where’s the creativity that will solve the world’s problems? Including economic and scientific ones?

First up, in this luckiest of lucky years, is Graphic Artist, Eoin Coveney…

Eoin Coveney

What’s your greatest personal or career achievement?

Working with, and being mentored by, the late Will Eisner.

What’s been your greatest sacrifice?

I really can’t think of one. Maybe I sacrificed some of my social life working in a solitary environment?

To whom do you owe a debt of gratitude?

I owe Steve McManus of 2000AD for giving me a meeting many years ago even though it was against their policy.

Who and what inspire you?

European masters of the graphic novel such as  Moebius and Cam Kennedy.
Music and cinema also.

What was the last thing that inspired you?

Drawing a 6- page comic strip written by Gordon Rennie. It was a politics / zombie satire which was a joy to work on.

What makes you unhappy?

Lack of enthusiasm.

What makes you happy?

Trust.

What are you reading?

Nothing right now. My last was “A short history of nearly everything” by Bill Bryson.

Who, or what, are you listening to?

Lots of dark ambient right now.

What’s your favourite film?

Impossible to narrow it down. “The Host” is pretty close to perfect.

If you could go back in time, where would you go?

I’d probably be too worried about getting stuck there so I would stay here given the choice.

What frightens you?

Laziness.

What do you do to relax?

Noodling around on my microKorg.

What do you do when you’re angry?

Scream into a pillow.

What can’t you live without?

I would say music.

What’s your motto?

Keep on learning and improving.

What’s your Utopia?

Probably West Cork in August.

If you only had one year to live what would you do?

Six months frenzied work, three months of traveling and another three months of relaxing with friends and loved ones.

Up who’s arse would you like to stick a rocket, and why?

Probably Damien Hirst because he doesn’t feel the need to manufacture and craft his own art.

Who would you like to be stuck in an elevator with?

Howard Marks.

 What are you working on at the moment?

“American Caesar”, a graphic novel written by Neil Kleid.

What is your ambition?

To work hard on cool projects with brilliant people.

If you could change one thing in the world, what would it be?

I’d like to turn down the dial on human greed a good few notches.

Which six people would you invite to your boating party?

Fiancée, parents, 3 close friends… no celebrities!

What would be on the menu?

Greek food.

What question would you liked me to have asked?

“What’s it all about?”

Thank you, Eoin.

Artist’s statement:

I have been illustrating professionally for 14 years. 
For the first ten of those years, I worked mostly on
 the pre-production phase for many of Dublin’s top
 advertising agencies. Producing
storyboards & visuals for hundreds of campaigns.


In 2005  I joined the Illustrators Guild of Ireland,
 and since then have broadened my range of styles 
and disciplines. These days, my work is split pretty
 evenly between illustration for ad campaigns,
 book covers and interiors, press and magazine
 work as well as pre-production work.
 Private commissions also undertaken.

Suspenders – by Raymond Carver

Suspenders

by Raymond Carver

Mom said I didn’t have a belt that fit and
I was going to have to wear suspenders to school
next day. Nobody wore suspenders to second grade,
or any other grade for that matter. She said,
You’ll wear them or else I’ll use them on you. I don’t want any more trouble. My dad said something then. He
was in the bed that took up most of the room in the cabin
where we lived. He asked if we could be quiet and settle this
in the morning. Didn’t he have to go in early to work in
the morning? He asked if I’d bring him
a glass of water. It’s all that whiskey he drank, Mom said. He’s
dehydrated.

I went to the sink and, I don’t know why, brought him
a glass of soapy dishwater. He drank it and said, That sure
tasted funny, son. Where’d this water come from?
Out of the sink, I said.
I thought you loved your dad, Mom said.
I do, I do, I said, and went over to the sink and dipped a glass
into the soapy water and drank off two glasses just
to show them. I love Dad, I said.
Still, I thought I was going to be sick then and there. Mom said,
I’d be ashamed of myself if I was you. I can’t believe you’d
do your dad that way. And, by God, you’re going to wear those
suspenders tomorrow, or else. I’ll snatch you bald-headed if you
give me any trouble in the morning. I don’t want to wear
suspenders,
I said. You’re going to wear suspenders, she said. And with that
she took the suspenders and began to whip me around the bare legs
while I danced in the room and cried. My dad
yelled at us to stop, for God’s sake, stop. His head was killing him,
and he was sick at his stomach from soapy dishwater
besides. That’s thanks to this one, Mom said. It was then somebody
began to pound on the wall of the cabin next to ours. At first it
sounded like it was a fist–boom-boom-boom–and then
whoever it was switched to a mop or a broom
handle.  For Christ’s sake, go to bed over there! somebody yelled.
Knock it off! And we did. We turned out the lights and
got into our beds and became quiet. The quiet that comes to a house
where nobody can sleep.