Artistic (Sort of)


Who do you think you are? Ranbir Kapoor?
He’s the top male heartthrob in Bollywood.
Think you’re a film star? That what you picture?
From a famous dynasty, he’s made good.

Your turn now. For fame, think there’s no limit.
There are millions who will adore you.
Pay to see you when your films exhibit;
so the top directors won’t ignore you.

The leading ladies, too, want to co-star.
The award ceremonies, you’ll be there,
the most celebrated in cinema.
And now streamed into homes everywhere.

You think you can act like that around here?
Come on, who do you think you are? Ranbir?


Embroidery forming a patchwork quilt.
Gloriously coloured art, upon, sown.
Imagined depictions, there are revealed.
Scenes of importance worthy to be shown.

With wonderful patterns of surroundings.
A variety of shapes repeated.
Some quite complicated, some simple rings.
Making it so whole design completed.

Craftwomanship of such intricacy
Needlework from steady, accomplished hand.
Threads inserted with due delicacy,
with concentration that the skill demand.

So much to admire as exemplary,
work of magnificent embroidery.


Dungarees, so comfortable they please.
Casual look; they make her look at ease.
And cool. Must be saving a few degrees.
Take a photo for future memories.

Dungarees. Those wearing, with a thin stripe.
But by far, the colour is mostly white.
Sufficient space, so couldn’t call them tight.
Could describe as ‘immaculate’ on sight.

Dungarees. Not a dress, or skirt or jeans.
Last two, with a top or blouse, to be seen.
Or pantaloons, with ballooning it seems.
Full length with trousers. To wear, meriting.

Yet, however designed this distinct form,
still, like those, have to be stylishly worn.


Using my imaginative power,
I can create a fact from a fiction.
From a root that’s embedded, a flower.
Of, within me … beyond me …, depiction.

Might say, ‘incredible’, potentially.
Might think thoughts out of the ordinary.
May even put colour on memory.
Maybe bring forth a strange commentary.

A lot of people achieve whole stories.
Yet more, music and paintings of beauty.
Could believe, make sense of anomalies.
Some, put to belief, irrefutably.

Brain’s imaginative capacity
adds much more to living, than normally.


Flowing as though there is a breeze about,
but there is none. Just movement as she moves.
Leg power, and it ripples ‘round about.
The soft material, in its drop, smooth.

It does not mean that shape is abandoned.
In fact, enhances, in a stately way.
Down a distance, but not so low, stand on.
And although roomy, aligned straight, to stay.

Walking, wearing, could give the appearance
of floating; being airily graceful.
As if upon a cloud, her adherence.
Or, on a magic carpet, mythical.

Not necessarily match with this grace,
but this dress with her does; her smiling face.


Exclude the culprit with an early bath.
Via red card, order to be sent off.
Acted mean and nasty, not merely daft.
At the game’s basic safety rules, has scoffed.

The tackle entered into was awful.
Might have broken a bone in leg or hip.
Pleased it didn’t, but the ref saw it all.
The studs going in as the rival slipped.

The stamp that came next disguised as a step.
The brutal twist as flesh and bone engaged.
That got the treatment could really expect.
Yet, told to go after that, made enraged.

“I have the right to stay on the pitch” claimed.
But went, after a few choice words exchanged.


Blow me down. Knock me out with a feather.
It’s supposed to be the heat of summer,
but here we are with cold, rainy weather.
For getting out to enjoy, a bummer.

Rain. Good for the garden. Good for the plants;
if assume sun will follow at some point.
Go outdoors for a time, and a good chance
will get wet. Baptised. Rain, the head, anoint.

Holy water, then, this way of thinking.
Praise be to the heavens. Praise to nature.
Will even fill what’s needed for drinking.
And clean-up the streets. Cause filth’s erasure.

All that from a spell of rain. It’s magic.
The forecast is, it will rain a fair bit.


“The wound is the place where the Light enters
you”, said Rumi, early Persian poet.
Leonard Cohen amongst the assenters.
In one of his songs, perhaps you know it,

sings, “There is a crack in everything.
It’s where the Light gets in.” Similar thought.
The Light as change, both men imagining.
‘Hope comes out of the dark’ is what is taught.

No bad state lasts forever. It gives way.
Good spirit can overcome repression.
Torture and death may be a regime’s way.
But, known or not, martyrs leave impression.

The Light, then, a metaphor for better.
Wound or crack becomes a broken fetter.


In the 13th century, lived Rumi,
a Persian poet, highly regarded.
More. A scholar. A jurist. A Sufi.
Theologian. Wisdom he imparted.

“Only from the heart can you touch the sky”.
Or, “Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along”, fly high
as quotes of love, antidotes to despair.

“Why do you stay in prison”, also said
by him, “when the door is so wide open.”
“Stop acting so small. You are,” … says instead
“the universe in ecstatic motion.”

One more of Rumi’s for your mental health,
“Be melting snow. Wash yourself of yourself.”


“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing, there is a field”, he said.
Rumi, the Sufi poet, endowing
the world with this quote from his wise old head.

“I’ll meet you there.” Continues, “When the soul
lies down in that grass, the world is too full
to talk about.” Quotation of his, whole.
As far as I am aware, that’s it all.

Yet, what to make of that field that’s beyond?
In repose, it’s free of social constraints.
A Paradise, where seeking to belong.
Soul on the grass, more than a picture paints.

World’s content envisaged as profusion.
Contemplating what is, grand illusion.


The light over the gravestones, through the trees,
mixes the sun with dark; a tint of shade.
A slightly eerie look, then, what one sees.
The stones standing motionless, on parade.

You would need two colours to paint that light.
At least two, or at least, the correct two.
And their application have to be right
to record that light’s essence, and that hue.

Would not describe it as being dappled.
It’s a single light, as though egg-white brushed.
If thought other-worldly, might get rattled,
but it is still. By ghosts, I think, untouched.

So although no reason, I think, to fear,
it does present as a strange atmosphere.


White Speedo Man made quite an impression
on the swimmer sedately doing lengths.
He thought it a Hockneyesq expression.
The blue and the white in the artist’s lens.

For the steadier swimmer, a painter,
with an eye for art and the aesthetic,
the male gaze of his bolder, not fainter.
In this regard, subject energetic.

For fit and strong was the White Speedo Man.
Powered through the water, lithe, sleek and fast.
Tuned-up, only the barest fat to hand.
In one of those pool paintings could be cast.

Wearing white speedos, perhaps expected
that be seen from the artist’s perspective.


Covert pictures by Miroslav Tichi.
Photographing women, unknowingly
to them. Invasion of their privacy.
His personal, home-made, pornography.

Was there a law against it? Is there now?
He would certainly be thought a pervert.
Subversive. Now art it is deemed to be,
by quite a few photography experts.

Women are still frequently the subject
of portraits by camera, overtly.
To show how attractive, is the object
Face, body, dress enhanced, nude; shows beauty.

But, would expect the basic condition,
that, unlike Tichi’s, snapped with permission.


Co-presenter of Lost Masterpieces,
outstanding beauty, Emma Dabiri.
Sight of her on screen certainly pleases.
Really good looking, can say sincerely.

She is unquestionably talented.
Social historian, black hair expert.
Author, broadcaster. Will have more to give.
And in the lovely stakes, a racing cert.

Mixed race. Half Irish. Half Nigerian.
Her hair patterning, extraordinary.
Camera loves, but no chameleon.
No way that she could look ordinary.

This poem, a eulogy, quite clearly.
A found masterpiece, Emma Dabiri.