Golly

I have now the status of a controversial artist joining Emin Hirst Gauguin Hopper; you name them. Ha ha.

Friends informed me that one of my favourite and largest paintings 100 cm x 150cm was no longer on the wall at a public venue where it was enjoying a solo airing.

Obviously diplomatically I investigated. The painting called

“Each Peach Anansi Plum”

depicting characters from global folk and nursery stories and toys with stories had upset a viewer enough for that person to complain about a black-face “samba” doll interpreted as a golly***.

Their right.

So down came the painting three days ago after being up and out there for three weeks.

All was not lost on the cultural and local scene. I’d watched BBC Arena’s 2022 James Joyce’s Ullyses and realised that author Eidear McBride a contributor to the marvellous documentary lives on the next road to me.

I stride with giants.

And then I sketched and prepped another huge painting influenced by a story out of Africa.

I am marooned as local buses are on diversion and nothing’s running by my and McBride’s roads.

It’s the longest day and the moon was gloriously full.

Those at EastBank Seniors are off to Sargent and Fashion at Tate Britain all free mais oui.

A Letter to my Sister: Living.

Did you ever watch Flamenco?

Do you sometimes travel in your mind?

I don’t know you

I know about you

About him

About what he did

That you stayed

But that’s it

No emotions dance on your face

The shadows stay dark

Secret

Loaded with stuff

Stuff that’s nasty

Unbelievable

Repeated.

You shut off but where

Where were you?

Physically by a window?

Mentally I never knew

Never know

You have no words no command of language

Your thoughts tumble out muddled Unpunctuated

Coiled tangled and leaving no space for dreams or faraway places

So here

So now

No cruise shop behind your eyes and shunted into the mass of your brain

Did you consider blue skies when you knitted.

Nit knack

Completing

Lifting

Furthering

Swirling wool like sands between fingers

Where are you?

You didn’t want me to know you

He took your you away

And you choose to stay home

Safe secure

Unexploded

Unexploring

Just a state of mind

Yours.

---

LETTER TO MY DEAD SISTER.

—————————————

In memory of those four aunties we saw once

Who came laughing to our house

Linked by arms and duster-coats waving

I had wanted to go arm in arm with you

Sandals on and promenading on Clacton beach

Laughing. Smiling. Dimple-cheeked.

Hiding

My hurt when you told me

On the top floor of North Middlesex

To go

As your workmate

Elbows familiar on your bed

Nodded in agreement

We were the first two

We played together

Shopped for mum together

Saw the man exposing himself

Swore to not tell mum.

Shh.

Sideways glances over an uncut loaf

And jam.

And Swiss Roll for tea.

Cut the cake

It wasn’t my fault.

You did cry for my dead child

You came alone.

We ate two tomatoes on two toast.

Today your spirit whispered and led me in the warm night

where in your hospice bed you spurted brown juice.

I didn’t cry

You’d numbed me before.

My wishful thinking

obliterated some truth.

——————————————————–

3 hours of King Lear on telly with no tea break.

Anthony Sher dazzles in the RSC’s King Lear