Metamorphoses Book 6 Overview and Prompts: Transformations Collaborative Poetry Project

George Braque Metamorphoses

TRANSFORMATIONS

Started in February 2013, 17 poets, 15 months,  creating 1 contemporary reworking of Ovid‘s Metamorphoses

See the Transformations Page For More Details

Here we are in the middle of June with our deadline of Book 5 poetry being Thursday 27th June. It comes around quickly!

This post sets out to provide an overview of Book 6 with a deadline for the poems inspired by that book being Wednesday 31st July. The second  batch of Book 4 poems went out yesterday and Book 4 poems will be posted out for the rest of this month.

If you missed out on Book 3 poems you can find them here, here, here and here. I’ve also created a ‘Transformations Poems Tab’ on the site menu for ease of access.

Please not that from now on I will combine the overview post with the prompt, deadline and optional verse form post. This seems to make more sense and keeps it all in one place.

Overview of Book 6: 

 

Pallas [Minerva] had listened to the tale she told

With warm approval of the Muses’song

And of their righteous rage. Then to herself-

To praise is not enough; I should have praise

Myself, not suffer my divinity

To be despised unscathed’. 

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Book 6 is subtly connected to book five by the theme of contest/war/conflict. It also significantly drives the subject matter and thought of the previous books in a different direction. Ovid turns the placid goddess Minerva on her head and transforms her into a punishing deity who chastises  a mortal just for her gift of creating magnificent tapestries and for being proud of that fact. Ovid transforms  a seemingly slight tale into a story of conflict between two master weavers who both imbue  their work with their world view and biases. Indeed, the tapestry that Arachne  (a girl  of humble origins with amazing weaving skills) creates is used to  embody the themes of books 1-3 in its skeins. Ovid uses this scenario to  challenge the power of the gods; perhaps, suggesting their influence should be taken lightly.

Book 6 also has the tale of Niobe (Queen of Thebes and wife of Amphion) which embodies an important principle of Greek thinking- ‘that one must not tempt the gods by boasting of luck, good fortune or happiness’ (Brunauer: 64). Importantly, it is also in Book 6 that the epic crucially goes in a different direction:  away from the subject of mortals challenging gods towards a story of  ’human lust’, brutality, and bloody vengeance within families’ (William S. Anderson in Brunauer: 64). The first part of the poem in Book 6 focuses on the Gods and the second part on mortal men and women.

Summary of the Tales in Book 6 

The Myths and Key Characters: Arachne; Niobe; The Lycian Peasants; Marsyas;  Pelops; Procne and Philomela; Boreas and Orithyia

Arachne:

The goddess Minerva/Pallas disguises herself as an old woman in order to punish a young girl (Arachne) for boasting about her skills at weaving. Arachne refuses to pay any heed to what Minerva says. In order to undermine Arachne’s refutation Minerva reveals herself as a goddess but Arachne still refuses to listen challenging her to a weaving contest. They both produce phenomenal pieces . Minerva’s tapestry represents her win over Neptune’s (Roman God of freshwater) patronage over the city of Athens and the folly of mortals who challenge the gods’ power. In contrast, Arachne chooses to depict the way the god’s play with the lives of mortal girls. She particularly highlights Jove (Lord of Heaven). Minerva realises Arachne’s work is exceptional and batters her viciously and this so traumatises Arachne she tries to hang herself. Minerva takes pity on her and lets her live but transforms her into a spider.

 

Niobe

Niobe (Queen of Thebes, mother of 7 sons and 7 daughters)  tragically offends nymph Latona (Mother of Apollo and Diana) by thinking the thought that she was the’ happiest of mothers’. Latona calls upon her divine children to exact vengeance on Niobe by killing all her family with her children’s arrows. Grief-stricken at her children’s death she turns into stone. This transformation occurred in order to remind other mortals what can happen when mortal boasting affects Gods.

The Lycian Peasents:

An unnamed narrator now  tells the story of nymph Latona. The importance of this story becomes apparent when read in sequence with the Niobe story as their arrangement is part of the particular tapestry Ovid is creating. In this story Latona is driven into exile  by Juno (Queen of Heaven). Thirsty and unable to breast feed her children Lacona tries to drink from a village pond but is harassed by some villagers and she turns them into frogs out of vengeance. Ovid foregrounds the injustice of Latona’s treatment and the nastiness of the local’s behaviour. To turn them into frogs does not seem harsh enough he seems to suggest. The story acts as an example of how context shapes the nature of what is right and wrong and how this shapes meaning.

Marsayas

This story also presents us with a contest- a contest between artists and the punishment that results from it.  Marsayas (a satyr) is skinned alive for threatening Apollo in a music competition and not winning.  Here we have another example of an artist being punished for their art.  The tale is gruesome but it is butted up against a pastoral depiction of sadness at Marsayas’  fate.  The  tears of Marsayas’ kinsfolk  turning the blood of Marsayas into a river of the same name.   Despite Marsaya’s challenge to authority, and because of his punishment, he gains notoriety and fame and his art goes on forever.

Tereus, Procne Philomela

The Lycian storytellers continue to tell a sequence of other stories which represent blasphemies in history. The tale of Tereus (King of Thrace)  is retold. The king who sent his army to aid Athens against a barbarian invasion. Out of gratitude Tereus is offered the daughter of Pandion (King of Athens)-  Procne as his wife. Procne asks Tereus if her sister Philomela can visit, he agrees but when he collects her he  is overcome with passion for her and he incestuously rapes her (some critics have seen this section as pornographic Liveley: 74). Philomela threatens to reveal his crime to Procne her sister. In order to prevent this happening Tereus cuts out her tongue and repeatedly rapes her. He leaves her abandoned and lies about why she has not returned with him.

However Philomela manages to get a message to her sister who swears vengeance on Tereus. During an orgy for Bacchus Philomela disguises Procne and removes her from Tereus’ clutches. In punishment for Tereus’ behaviour she serves him his own son in a meal. The two sisters afraid of Tereus’ rage flee and are turned into birds. Tereus is himself transformed into a hoopoe.

Boreas and Orithyia

Pandion (the father of Phiolmela and Procne) is heartbroken at the loss of his daughters. He recounts the story of the rape of his granddaughter Orithya  (daughter of Erechtheus) by Boreas (the North wind) who abducts her. Pandion goes in to decline and his throne is taken by Erechtheus. In this tale we see Erechtheus’ children grow into manhood, take wives and sail in the ship Argo across the seas in search of  The Golden Fleece. The story of their search is split between Book 6 and 7.

Themes, Analysis and Relevance

Here are some of the primary themes that run through Book 6:

• The nature of right and wrong in relation to context and circumstance (e.g. Niobe). The first half of Book 6 flagging up the state of the Gods and the second mortal man.

• Punishment: being punished for your art and how art can be seen as a way of immortalising yourself through time. The story of Marsayas highlights this.

• Violence and Rape, the cruelty and horror of extreme violence. This is particularly exemplified by the story of Philomela and Procne.

• Silence and Speech- and the impact either ‘withholding’ or ‘speaking out’  has; i.e. the ramifications of sticking up for yourself. An example of this again being Procne and Philomela.

Things of Interest: 

 

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T.S Eliot’s poem The Wasteland makes reference to the tale of Phiolmela:

Lines 97-103:

Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.

Eliot’s Note:

99. V. Ovid, Metamorphoses, VI, Philomela.

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Images from this story recur throughout the poem. In his note for line 100, Eliot directs us to an echo of the Philomela story in Part III. The swallow appears again at the end of the poem.

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See http://wasteland.windingway.org/99/the-change-of-philomel for more detail.

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Optional Prompts and Verse Form

Prompts: Bridge, Absorb, Accident, Fantasy, Eclipse, Playful, Truth, Dazzle, Bed, Steam, Argue , Inversion, Golden.

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Verse Form: Rhyme Royal - sometimes known as the Troilus stanza - has 7 lines of 10 syllables each (normally iambic pentameters) and a rhyming scheme of ababbcc.

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See here for more information.

N.B. I will shortly attach an audio of the tale of ‘Marsayas’ to this post, in case any of you are too busy to read the book!

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Watch out for more poetry inspired by book 4 coming out throughout June.

To confirm: the deadline for Book 6 Poetry is Wednesday 31st July  

 

 

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References:

Brunauer, Dalma H (1996) The Metamorphoses of Ovid, New Jersey Research and Education Association

Hughes, T (1997) Tales from Ovid, London: Faber and Faber

Liveley, G. (2011) Ovid’s Metamorphoses, A Reader’s Guide,  London: continuum

Ovid (1986) Metamorphoses, World Classics, tr. A.D. Melville, Oxford: Oxford University Press

 

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‘Cry Mercy and Gentleness’ Cry 2/5: Transformations Poems (Book 4)

TRANSFORMATIONS

February 2013-March 2014

17 poets, 15 months, creating 1 contemporary reworking of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

See the Transformations Page for more details or the ‘Present Collaborations’ Tab

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Poems Inspired by Book 4

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Featuring:

Richard Biddle, Rebecca Audra Smith

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If I were the Sun…

by Richard Biddle 

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If I were the Sun…
I’d be a confused recluse
living in open solitude
93 million miles away from everyone.

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If I were the Sun…
I’d combust all poetries but one, mine
and create a shrine to the divine
temperature, Fahrenheit 451.

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If I were the Sun…
I’d shrink to the size of a coin and
lie on the pavement, shimmering and
golden, scolding swindled fingers.

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If I were the Sun…
I’d be a 24-7 voyeur, simmering on the brink.
Pent-up with white-hot rage and unspent
spermatozoa.

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If I were the Sun…
I’d be a flamboyant superstar. A bleached
smile, radiating mythical status, addicted
to crack cocaine.

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If I were the Sun…

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As it is, I lurk in libraries flicking though
dictionaries & thesauruses looking up

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Daughters of Minyas

by Rebecca Audra Smith

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Gossip clings treacle sticky on the fingers,

bitter in the mouth and sweet in the veins.

Chatting over spindles, chatting over knitting;

babies in their cradles and the women sit

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airing dirty laundry, hanging it out to dry;

men are tutted, the children are bribed.

Outside in the streets people are dancing

while the women spin tales, such a pretty pattern.

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A woman sits with her thimble

thumbing through her thoughts,

whispers of seduction in the broad daylight,

shameless hussy!

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how she tried to hide her secret but another

told it to her father who buried her alive.

That soil choked the mouth up

stopped its little secrets, serves her right.

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Woman sits with her needle

threading through her words,

choosing them with care,

the girl wouldn’t join the others,

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wouldn’t play along had to be alone-

Vain husband snatcher!

She came to a sticky end all right,

Drowning, water in the ears and eyes.

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Gossips churning out their chatter

think that they’re above it,

hark to the husbands coming home,

 Look at them try to find a shadow

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 Fumbling for safety, better say a prayer

While you’ve time, till he gets angry,

You’ll keep tongues to yourselves

You’ll be a warning to the others, wives.

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Phaeton’s Twin Sister

Sonnet V

by Rebecca Audra Smith

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The moon’s path long silvery trail forwards
She dodged the scorpion’s snapping claws
Till a lily maid stumbling in a stream
stooped and looked, stopped with awe
Blossoming night flowers scenting the air
Her feet soon rooted in the silt
Her face follows the moon since then
Longing to catch another glimpse

Of the maiden-moon hauling her hope
Her bright dream baggage a glowing load
The glowering Gods turned a blind eye
To her torturous journey flying by
Diana paced and cursed the stars
To see the rebel reaping the night.

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You can find more about Richard and Becca and their work here:

Richard Biddle

http://writings43.blogspot.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/littledeaths68

Rebecca Audra Smith

http://beccaaudra.wordpress.com/

https://twitter.com/BeccaAudra

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The Divine Mr M: Drawing Mark From Memory

by Ray Bentley

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This slideshow requires JavaScript.

When Nicky asked me to write something for Artipeeps I was thrilled, even though I didn’t have a clue what I could possibly say that would hold anyone’s interest for 2,000 words. I had a look at the blog and there was any number of posts from people about their personal testimony or their artistic practice which I didn’t feel I could match, simply because my own biography and working methods seem utterly dreary by comparison. My first thought was that I should write something called “What is Art For?”, but this was quickly dismissed by partner as the kind of arid mumbling that had been done a million times before on art blogs.

“I know:”, he said. “Why not write about Mark?”.

“That’s not really relevant”, I said.

“No”, he said, “but he is interesting. Why not draw him as well? It’ll be a good exercise.”

The latter would be a challenge, given that Mark made it a rule never to have his photograph taken and that he’s been dead for ten years, but I thought I’d give it a go. I did draw him once before, a long time ago; he commissioned me to do a pen and ink drawing of him at his prime, but that’s long-lost now.

When I settled on Mark as a subject, I was presented with two new problems: firstly, how could I do justice to his extraordinary life, and, more worryingly, how could I do it in so few words?

I wasn’t sure, so I delegated that part of the task to my partner (who’s also called Mark), which means that everything you’ve read so far – and everything you’re about to read – has been written by him (seeing as it was his smart idea). All I did was talk into his voice recorder for an hour and a half, and do some drawings.

Mark was twenty five when we first met, and although he’d reached the pinnacle of his working life a few years previously, the long, elegant decline I saw him play out was as compelling as anything I’d missed. I was eighteen, fresh from the provinces, and he immediately offered me the first of the many stark bon mots which would become his trademark over the years.

“Raymond, darling” he said, with a swish of his dinner-plate hands “if ever you are ill, simply disappear, and come back when you’re well. Aaand – if you have any problems, don’t even think for a moment of sharing them with anyone, because they won’t want to know”.

For the rest of his life he continued to hide behind this ineffable mask, and while he steadfastly refused to advertise his frailties, he never gave himself the time to flaunt his successes either; I only found out from a friend years later, for example, that while peers, dignitaries and heads of state were forced to walk from the cordons to Westminster Abbey on Coronation Day, Mark had been limousined from palace to palace to spray the hair and fix the coronets of the world’s aristocracy. Not-yet twenty-one, and under the soubriquet of Mr M (or “Lil” to his closest customers), he’d become the best-placed commoner at the last hurrah of the greatest empire, without even breaking into a sweat.

If ambition had ever been a part of Mark’s make-up, he hid that well too. As far as I know he’d left his native Cardiff as a teenage hairdresser to move to Manchester after catching the eye of Helena Rubenstein, before quickly heading to London, Paris and then London again to find himself teasing the locks of Queen Mary and Princess Margaret before he was old enough to vote, and without that much in the way of effort.

So: in the absence of any palpable hunger, what was it that tossed a working class boy from South Wales to these heights so quickly? I’m not really sure, but I think it was the combination of his impeccable, unforced manners, his beguiling confidence and, more than anything, his looks that taxied him into polite society, blessed as he was with the pompadour, the quixotic flounce, the traffic-stopping nose, the ambiguous physique and the sheer height that would, by turns, disarm, mesmerise or reassure everyone who met him.

Looking back, now, however, I can see how the same un-neediness occasionally informed against him. Had he been more career-minded I feel sure that he would have found it in himself not to throw a chair at one of his more celebrated clients after her late arrival to an appointment. His inevitable dismissal as a result of this naturally curtailed his trajectory, but after retreating to Cardiff to let the dust settle he was quickly lured to London afresh by Oxxxxxx just before they moved to Knightsbridge.

So: less than two years after his expulsion he was preening the elite again, just as his sins were slipping from polite memory, and with the instinct and renewed energy to try something new.

Wigs had slipped out of fashion in the 1920′s, but with the advent of new technology, greater prosperity, and some fledgling interest on the continent, Mark decided that he would bring the revival to the London, and he successfully and somewhat doggedly re-introduced the capital to a passion for hairpieces that would last well into the sixties.

This was another of his unique qualities: he could learn his way into a position of unparalleled expertise on whatever appealed to him at any given time: wigs, clocks, antiques, quadrophonic sound, chimpanzees, his Borzois, exotic African gentlemen or Lord Byron (whose style he comprehensively appropriated) , and this always kept adversity at bay long enough for him to keep the Mark industry ticking over. Such was his authority on the aforesaid poet that he was consulted by Peter Hall – director of the West End première of “Camino Real” – to ensure that the young Robert Hardy played him with exactly the right hair colour.

His passions weren’t always so durable, however. He returned his chimp to Harrods just hours after its purchase when it became evident that the constant screeching and poo-throwing would play havoc with his hosting prowess.

He was also blessed with a selective practicality which, to all but Mark, appeared utterly extraordinary: for example, he thought it perfectly natural that everyone should have at least one overgrown fingernail for those times when there wasn’t a screwdriver to hand. He also thought it was the obvious career move, when, aged just twenty, he received a series of injections from a doctor boyfriend which successfully protected him from hereditary baldness, even if it meant that he’d be forced to live with a pair of perfectly formed but debilitatingly substantial breasts for the next thirty years.

I can’t say exactly what it was that made him leave hairdressing in the early 1960′s, but he made a well-timed exit just before the kid-next-door renaissance of that era turned Mark’s brand of exoticism into a quaint impediment.

Mark’s first attempt at reinvention shrewdly mirrored the entrepreneurial hipness of that age, and he utilised his contacts within the music industry to repackage himself as The Mystery Singer. His plan was to release a beat version of “Come Into The Garden, Maude” which would be sang from behind a screen, upon which a back light would silhouette Mark’s unmistakable profile and trademark cigarette holder. Although he couldn’t actually sing a note he considered this wholly unimportant, as he was well aware that they could “do marvellous things in the studio” to rectify this. Unsurprisingly this project never came to fruition in the way he’d hoped, although the concept remains strangely compelling.

It’s from this point onwards that I lose track with the chronology of Mark’s life, because when he didn’t visit he would limit contact to occasional, superficial telephone calls if things were going either extremely well, or extremely poorly. Given that I hardly ever saw him, this will give you some idea of what lay ahead.

His father – who’d diligently tithed Mark’s earnings for over a decade to ensure he didn’t fritter everything away – moved to London from Cardiff in the sixties, and together they relied on Mark’s knowledge of clocks and his father’s engineering prowess to make a comfortable living – for a while, at least.

It was about this time that he also embarked his longest, but most unsuccessful career, as an inventor. His single-mindedness remained as formidable ever, but for the first time, perhaps, the world resisted Mark in ways he couldn’t negotiate. The financial pressure of retaining patents on his ideas, coupled with his unerring taste for the good life meant that his capital was eaten away, and he could do nothing as his better innovations were picked off one by one as his rights expired.

To an inventor, determination is as combustible as oxygen, and the drive that allows you to knock unflinchingly on a multitude of doors eventually blinds you to the limitations of the products you believe in – and invest in – the most.

In Mark’s case he came unstuck because of his unwavering belief that disposable, self-adhesive glove-pads for caterers and car mechanics were the future, and he spend a king’s ransom on research and development until it became clear that it would cost him too much to get his glue to both work effectively and reliably whilst also meeting unsurprisingly stringent trading standards.

A substantial inheritance and the generous returns from the sub-letting of a sitting tenancy in the heart of the West End kept things ticking over financially, and he was able to mask his adversity from the mavens of London life for well over a decade, during which time he continued to make some very important friends despite any tangible success in his professional life.

Consequently, he was invited onto “Clive Anderson Talks Back” in the mid-80s to talk about his inventions, and he proved so popular that he was hurried back for a repeat performance on a following episode.

This flurry of interest in both his ebullient charm and his unlikely devices coincided with the removal of his breasts, but instead of freeing him to enjoy his eminence, it precipitated a deterioration which made it almost impossible for him to fully savour the rest of his life. His demeanour never changed, however, and he remained as dashing, imposing and as infectious as ever, even if he could no longer walk without assistance.

The last time I saw him was about twelve years ago, and even though the money was all but gone, he was living in a grace and favour house in the sticks that was nothing less than palatial, and was able to call on the services of a housekeeper to tend the needs of Mark, his partner, his ever-decreasing circle of friends, and his two enormous Borzois. He talked about how he’d recently appeared on Esther Rantzen’s new daytime show, but was somewhat discomfited by the way in which he and his fellow inventors were now been presented as eccentrics worthy of nothing but ridicule.

Between this visit and his subsequent death, two years later, I spoke to Mark only sporadically. His telephone calls were short, breezy postcards which were as engaging and as occasionally infuriating as ever, but they were never long enough to betray the new realities of his life.

When I went to his sparsely attended funeral I found out that both the house and the housekeeper had been gone for some time, and that he, his partner and his pitifully out-sized dogs had been forced by penury into a council flat which was hardly big enough for one giant, let alone four. A handful of people – mostly local – paid their respects at his service, but there was only me there that knew the many truths about Mark that would otherwise have remained locked away, even from his partner.

The fifty-year-long sunset on his own private empire was finally over, and with it, another un-Google-able life had been lost to history. For all I’ve gone on, you still don’t even know the half of what he got up to.

From this point onwards Me – Ray – the narrator, and Mark (my partner) the writer, differ: given the colour and unthinking vitality of Mark’s life and my own experience of his outlandishness, I only see tragedy in his quiet end.

My partner, however, only sees triumph, given that almost every life, be it eventful or otherwise, usually ends with the same unseemly bathos. Mark, he claims, lived “to the max”, and he feels sure that were he presented with the circumstances of his late penury, death and quiet exit exit fifty years earlier, he would gladly have taken it in return for the richness of the life he was gifted.

I’ve attached three drawings I did of Mark: the first was a pencil sketch I did as a refresher; the second was a profile based on that and further recollections, and the third was a much more impressionistic rendering I did after this article had been written; none of them, it has to be said, do him justice. If, on your travels, you ever chance upon a pen/ink sketch of a tall, naked reclining man with pendulous breasts, spectacular cigarette holder and an even more spectacular male appendage then you’ll have completed the set, and you’ll have a much better visual analogue for what it was that made this man so unique.

So: in a roundabout way maybe I have addressed my initial conceit, and I’ve perhaps unintentionally demonstrated just what it is art is for and what it can aspire to. It can reach up to the condition of excellence that makes humans so special, even when they’re maddening, frustrating, inscrutable or just too plain big to be pinned down.

We will almost certainly fail to do that as artists, just as we invariably fail as humans to reach our full potential, but when it gets close to the truth, it’s always worthwhile.

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You can find more about Ray and his painting here:

>http://raymondbentley.com/

>https://twitter.com/bentleysaltburn>>

Weekend Showcase: Laura Wake (Writer)

Every Friday, 1 artist/painter/poet/writer, letting their work speak for itself.

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Laura Wake

Laura Wake has recently completed her debut novel A Monster By Violet. She writes short stories, novels and scripts. The following is an extract from A Monster By Violet. 

Extracts from the novel, and more of her work can be viewed at https://laurawake.jux.com and  http://laurawake.blogspot.co.uk

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 ‘Art Class’, An Extract from A Monster By Violet

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The good thing about being in Class 4 is Art. Instead of doing Art in the junior rooms which are just normal classrooms with sinks at the back, we get to go in the art studio. There are huge wooden benches with marks on them like Dad’s workbench in his garage. Some of the benches have little drawings on them, and scratches where people have been using knives. All along one side of the room are proper artists’ easels. Not everyone in the class knows that they are called easels, but I do because Grandad has one. There are drawers with all different kinds of pencils and paints in; powder paints, poster paints, tubes of oil paints, some pastels, and lots of different kinds that I don’t even know the name of. There are big cupboards at the back of the room with different sizes and sorts of paper like tracing paper, and bright coloured card. As well as that kind of art stuff, there is a long table down one side of the room where you can do pottery, and even a potter’s wheel, and a huge, extra hot oven for clay called a kiln.

Our art teacher is short with spiky silver hair that stands up like a punk’s. She looks older than Mum and Dad, but has really bright eyes like a pixie. She wears long skirts that touch the ground, and I imagine that she isn’t walking, and doesn’t have feet, but is hovering like a fairy. Her name is Miss Farr, and Ruth says she’s only temporary because our normal art teacher is having a baby. Some people in the class call her Miss Fart, and say that we are going to Fart Class. It would be funny if instead of paints, all the bottles and jars of different things were actually collections of farts made by rare and extinct creatures.

There are a few people sitting at each of the wooden benches. In my group there is me, Ruth, and two girls called Mary and Harriet who look almost the same even though they’re not sisters. They are nice, but hardly ever talk to anyone except each other. They both have brown hair, wear pigtails, and have glasses. Mary is a bit fatter than Harriet, and Harriet has two moles on her cheek. Gemma is sat on the bench behind us with John the boy with freckles from the climbing frame, a big boy with curly hair called George who is always sneaking food into his mouth from his pockets, and the twins, Alex and Aidan who I like because they are always making jokes. I think they invented the name Miss Fart, and they call fat Mrs Cobb ‘Egg on Legs’ which is funny because she even walks like an egg would if it had legs, with her legs moving out in a circle before going forward.

Miss Farr says, “Okay everybody, today you have some freedom!”

Everyone goes quiet.

“In a minute I’ll give you all an A1 piece of cartridge paper, and then you can choose your tools… pencil, felt-tip pens, oil pastels, or poster paint. You can use any of those, but you can’t mix them… Stick to one style.”

Gemma puts her hand up, “Miss, can I use coloured pencil?”

“No,” Miss Farr says, “I don’t like coloured pencil, and if you’re using pencil I’d be far more excited to see you do some shading, like we learnt last week.”

Gemma shrugs, and makes a bored face, “Guess I’ll use felt tips.”

Miss Farr is handing out the paper. I lay mine out in front of me.

“What are you going to use, Violet?” Ruth asks.

“Fat felt-tip pens, like Rolf Harris on Cartoon Time.”

“I think I’m going to paint,” she says.

Miss Farr stops handing out paper and says, “I forgot to say…you can use a pencil to plan your work out. So everyone get yourselves a pencil if you like as well as the other stuff. If you prefer to just work straight on the paper, you can do that too… whatever you like.”

The room gets noisy with everyone getting their pencils and paints.

“Another thing!” Miss Farr shouts, “This is a big project… we’ll be working on it for the next four or five weeks, so take your time and make it something really special… a masterpiece!”

“Miss!” Gemma shouts, “What are we supposed to be drawing?”

“I don’t know,” Miss Farr says, “It’s up to you…the only thing I want you to do is use the space you have…You have a big piece of paper, and I’d like you to fill it with anything you feel like. You could draw something to do with your family, or nature, or school, or something totally imaginary.”

Miss Farr sits down at her desk and closes her eyes for a while, then opens them and stares out of one of the big windows.

“Are we allowed to talk?” Gemma asks.

Miss Farr keeps staring out the window. She smiles and says, “Yes…of course you can talk.”

Ruth touches my hand, “What are you going to draw, Violet?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, “Maybe a cartoon of the playground with everyone playing, but there are monsters hiding in the school and bushes. What are you going to do?”

Ruth is very quiet and sometimes it’s hard to hear her speak. She is biting her nails, and I see that her nails are really short and the ends of her fingers are all pink.

“I think, an angel,” she says.

Miss Farr sits at her desk drinking from a mug, and sometimes drawing something. She only walks around the room twice to see what we are doing. When she talks to people she is really quiet, almost whispering.

She gets to Ruth before me, and I hear her say, “The lines are lovely…” and “…Don’t be afraid to make her bigger… she’s beautiful.”

I have sketched the octagon and Matthew falling in mid-air. Adam is on the top beating his hands on his chest like a gorilla. Underneath the two hunchbacked ladies from the care centre are holding out a trampoline to catch him. I have left spaces for the forest and the mansion. I don’t know whether to put wolves in the mansion or monsters.

Miss Farr puts her hand on the bench next to my picture. She has short nails which are painted green, and a ring with an orange jewel in it on her little finger. She says very close to my ear, “Wow! You’ve got a lot going on there…. good details though, I can tell who everyone is…. What are you going to colour it with…paint?”

“Fat felt-tip pens,” I say.

“Mmm,” she says, “Be careful not to do the pencil lines too dark, or they’ll show through the pen.”

She smells like lemons… much nicer than Mrs Martin and her sickly coffee smell. Then she says to me and Ruth, “You’re a talented pair…If you like, you can come to my extra class on Thursdays after school…Ask your parents.”

At the end of school I go and wait for Mum in the car park. I sit on a tree trunk kicking my shoes in the gravel. Someone’s hands cover my eyes. I scream and kick because I think it’s the hunchback. I jump up and trip on the tree trunk and my school bag falls in the mud. Someone starts laughing.

“Got you,” Adam says.

I smile but feel strange inside like I’m full of cold water. “I thought you were the hunchback,” I say.

“I crept up on you for ages… all the way from the gym.”

I’m a bit angry that I didn’t notice him. “Oh… well done.”

He is smiling a lot because he frightened me. “What’s class 4 like?” he asks.

“Okay… At least there’s no Esther stinking out the classroom.”

“You’re lucky,” he says, and stops smiling, “I brought my gameboy in today, and Esther told Mrs Martin…and she took it. My Dad’s gonna be really angry… I wasn’t supposed to take it to school.”

Adam’s mum is really nice, and lets Adam do what he wants, but Adam’s dad is a policeman and quite scary. He tells Adam and his brother off a lot.

“Say you lent it to me because I was sad about my brother,” I say.

Adam holds out his hand, “Brainwave!” he says, “Gimme five.”

“Adam!” someone calls, and we see Adam’s mum calling from her car.

“Gotta go,” Adam says. He runs to the car.

“Violet, come here!” his mum shouts, so I go up to the car. “Do you want to come swimming with us on Saturday? Ask your mum… tell her to call me.”

“Okay, I will,” I say.

When Mum arrives we walk home together holding hands. She isn’t speaking much, and only says ‘yes’ or ‘mm hmm’ when I tell her stuff. I keep talking anyway. Her hand feels cold and dry.

When we get home, she gives me lentil soup. We eat it together. I am eating much faster than her.

“Can we watch telly together tonight Mum?”

She breaks off a piece of bread crust and says, “No… we have to go to the hospital tonight… Dad and I have got our special class, and you’ve got yours too.”

Because my brother died, we have to go to a meeting with other people who have had cot deaths.

“Do I have to go?” I say.

I hate the care group. Everyone just eats jam sandwiches and draws pictures, and the other children are babyish. There is a horrible fat girl who cries all the time. She had a little sister who died a whole year ago. I think she is just one of those people who can make themselves cry so everyone feels sorry for them.

Mum doesn’t say anything. I tear my bread into pieces and throw them in the soup. I push them under with my spoon.

“Can’t I come in your and Dad’s class?”

The doorbell rings and Mum sighs, and goes to answer it. The pieces of bread have absorbed the soup, and now there are just lots of pieces of heavy bread in the bowl. I put one in my mouth. It’s all squashy like baby food.

I hear my mum start talking loudly, so I go to see who is there.

There is a man at the door holding an encyclopaedia. He has a big shopping bag with lots of encyclopaedias in it. Mum is holding one and she is crying. The man is reaching out to take the encyclopaedia from her and looks like he wants to leave.

“Okay, Madam… thanks for listening,” he says.

Mum is holding the encyclopaedia really tight and shaking it like she wants to break it. “They’re just fucking words!” she shouts.

“Please, if you’ll just hand me the book,” the man says. He sees me and sort of smiles.

I stay by the key cupboard; I don’t think Mum has seen me yet. She sounds horrible when she swears, it’s like it isn’t actually my mum.

“Fucking books! Fucking KNOWLEDGE!” she screams, “It doesn’t mean ANYTHING!” When she says ‘anything’, she kind of growls. She holds the book up over her head, and I think she might hit the man if he doesn’t move. I go and hold Mum’s sleeve. She moves her chin a little bit towards me, but doesn’t look. She is shivering, and I can feel her arm shaking through her sleeve.

The man lifts his bag up and moves backwards. He trips as he steps off the doormat. He says, “I’ll just come back later for the book.” He looks frightened of Mum.

Mum doesn’t care that she’s scared him. She throws the encyclopaedia at him and he puts his arms over his head. The encyclopaedia hits the ground and skids on its cover. “Leave us alone!” she shouts, and slams the door so hard I think the glass almost breaks. Mum kneels down on the floor with her arms covering her face.

Everything is quiet in the house. It is as if the slam of the door has blasted away all the other noises. I look up the stairs and see Cupid looking at us through one of the banisters.

Then Mum makes a horrible groaning breathing noise, and starts rocking and crying. I put my arms around her and cuddle her, but I don’t think she even knows I am there.

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You can also follow Laura on Twitter here:

https://twitter.com/LauraWakeWriter

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If you are a creative from any discipline and would like to be showcased please do get in touch via the comment boxes on any of out posts or pages. Or contact me via @ArtiPeep

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‘Neon Power’: The Journals of Lili Morgan #7 (Emerging Abstract Neon Artist)

Several months have gone by  since Lili left her Visitor Peep/Artist In Residence position, and now she has returned for her regular fortnightly blog-spot. Lili will be taking us along with her on her painterly journey and the development of her work with ‘neons’. While Lili’s with us we’ll also be setting her up with a mini- collaboration and Lili will have access to mentoring if needed.

 Here’s Lili:

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Wednesday 12th June

 “Well here it is. Time to reveal the little twist to my art work. If you haven’t guessed already then, with no further ado…..

The neons that I paint with are actually neon UV paint. They glow under a flourescent UV blacklight! This means that all my pictures are two in one.

I have taken photos of Galaxy 14, Twisted Heart and Atomic number 10  to show you how different the pictures look with and without the UV light. Personally, I like them best with the UV lighting as they glow so brightly.

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Galaxy 14:

Galaxy 14

Galaxy 14: Neon

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Twisted Heart:

Twisted Heart

Twisted Heart- Neon

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Atomic number 10:

Atomic 10

Atomic 10 Neon

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I haven’t seen many other artists use this concept, and my art is unique in the fact that I use these paints in every one of my pictures.

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 I love that they can all be seen in a completely different light! Literally!

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I am currently working on a few more pictures (one being my collaboration with the lovely poet Nat Hall). Once these are finished, then I will be sending my portfolio out. I am having a few problems with my internet at the moment, but it should be completed very soon including my new pictures.

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Anyway, I wanted to share my little twist  with ArtiPeeps first. I hope you like them!

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Until next time!

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Take Care,

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Love Lili x

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If you want to see more of Lili’s journaling and path you can find her lurking under the Visitor Peep Tab on our site Menu above.

Or follow her: https://twitter.com/LiliMorganArt

Equally, if you want to find out more about our last Visitor Peep Project ‘Interactions and Intersections’ with Kelly Occhiuzzo . You can find more out here, here, here, here and here. 

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Flash Fortnightly #16

Welcome to Flash Fortnightly!

My name is Laura Besley and I’m an EFL (English as a Foreign Language) teacher. Over the years I’ve met thousands of students of all ages from many different countries in the world. This job really suits me as I love meeting people and learning about different languages and cultures. After working in England for a couple of years, I moved to Düsseldorf, Germany, where I taught Business English for two years and now I’m living in Hong Kong. This small pocket of Asia is a perfect blend of East meets West and is rich in colour, noise and inspiration.

That brings me nicely onto writing. I’ve been writing on and off since childhood and did my degree in English Literature and Film Studies. When I was in Germany I started writing a bit more regularly and in Hong Kong I’ve really had the time to dedicate to my writing. In 2011 I joined the Hong Kong Writers Circle and a critique group which allowed me to start looking at my work with a more critical eye. On 4th May 2012 I embarked on a project to write one piece of flash fiction a day. I’ve always seen myself as a novelist, but actually I’ve found that I really love writing short pieces as it gives you plenty of room to experiment with style, voice, characters and settings. And each day I can write something new.

 

I hope you enjoy this ‘Flash Fortnightly’ entry and I’ll be back on Wednesday 26th June 2013 with some more…

 

NB. If any of Laura’s readers find this particular story familiar, it is one Laura has already published on her blog. We’re glad she’s sharing it with us. 

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Down the Hill

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Mrs. Knox pushed the heavy wheelchair up the hill for the third time that day, then stopped, turned and released it. She pulled her gloves off both hands, finger by finger, cupped her hands in front of her mouth and blew. Mrs Knox’ hands hadn’t been warm for as long as she could remember.

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The wheelchair careened down the incline, gaining speed and she turned at the sound of the crash. She put her gloves back on and slowly stomped down to the heap of metal, under which was her husband.

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She passed the row of town houses she had seen every day for the last forty years, each with a different coloured front door. Marjorie lived at number 21 behind the green door, and Betty at number 35 behind the black door. She’d regretted painting it that colour because she had to wash it every day. Tom and Pippa had been living behind the red door, but moved away when their only son was killed in the Iraq War. Marjorie knew every member of every family that lived behind those coloured doors.

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Pulling the wheelchair off him, her husband let out a groan. “Blimey Nora!” he said.

“Well, I do keep telling you,” she replied.

“But it’s so much fun!” He was sitting with a blanket over his thin legs. “And when you can’t feel anything anymore because your body has given up on you, it’s so nice to feel the wind in your face.”

Her lips turned up a little at the corners. “I suppose. Again?”

“Yes, please!”

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Laura Besley

If you’d like to check out more of my writing, flash fiction and non-fiction, check out my  blog: Living Loving and Writing. Or you can follow me on twitter @laurabesley or connect on facebook Laura Besley Writer

 

 

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‘Cry Mercy and Gentleness’ Cry 1/5: Transformations Poems (Book 4)

TRANSFORMATIONS

February 2013-March 2014

17 poets, 15 months, creating 1 contemporary reworking of Ovid’s Metamorphoses

See the Transformations Page for more details or the ‘Present Collaborations’ Tab

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Poems Inspired by Book 4

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Featuring:

James Knight and Kate Garrett

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13 Medusa variations

by James Knight

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1. Dreams

At twilight Medusa becomes a tree. Brittle branches grasp at the wind hissing through her leaves. She twists under mineral dreams.

2. Little Black Dress

Medusa queues to pay for a little black dress. She’ll knock ‘em dead tonight. But, fearing mirrors, she’ll never know how she looks in it.

3. Humdrum I

In Medusa’s kitchen, the kettle hisses and spits. She sits at the table, buttering toast. Her eyes are empty; her mind’s elsewhere.

4. Book

Medusa is turned into a book, bound in snakeskin. Left on the shelf for years, her pages yellow with age and envy. Her secret words will never be read.

5. Mermaid  

Medusa swims through the starless abyss, harpoon in hand, hunting. Her eyes are pearls, her hair a crown of gaping eels.

6. Alice

He glimpses the reflection of a coil of Alice’s hair as she darts between still white soldiers. In the frame of a mirror, she’s vulnerable.

7. Humdrum II

Medusa’s mother-in-law clucks over the baby, pecks his cheek. Afterwards, in the stony silence of the kitchen, Medusa plans a roast chicken.

8. TV

They sit in their millions, fixed by her stare.

9. Creation Myth

Medusa is the first monster. She hisses sweet nothings that become the sea. At night, she’s mesmerised by the silver shield of the moon.

10. Cupid

Medusa meets the man of her dreams in a hall of statues. She shoots love’s arrow through his heart, then caresses him until he’s rock hard.

11. Humdrum III

She inspects her grey skin in the hand mirror.

12. Art

Medusa takes up sculpture. Her subject is terror. Her material: life.

13. Reflection

Lost in the Garden of Eden, Medusa chances upon what she takes to be a reflection of herself: a woman, ripe with sin, stroking a serpent.

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Sticks from Stones

(After Ovid’s ‘Leucothoë and Clytië’)

by Kate Garrett

 

I. Frankincense

 

She radiates memories from perfumed

jewels, her limbs encrusted with them:

a fragrant shrine to the gods’ indiscretions.

 

Suffering seeps through, blooms: gather

it in, crush the resin, form it into shapes.

Burn it down; smoke rises to Heaven.

 

II. Heliotrope

 

She follows the trajectory of lost

love with her violet-gaze. Devotion

enhanced by the green leaves

 

coaxed out by saltwater from her

once-upon-a-time eyes. She wasted

away, but still thrives in his light.

 

 

Snake Haiku

(After Ovid’s ‘Cadmus and Harmonia’)

 

Two forked reptilian

tongues, and coils of pebbled skin

restore the balance.

 

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You can find more about James and Kate and their work here:

James Knight:

http://thebirdking.com/

https://twitter.com/badbadpoet

Kate Garrett:

http://kategarrett.weebly.com/

https://twitter.com/kate_garrett

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