The Exhibition is called The Poetry of Painting so I have included some of my non rhyming poems about painting, written overt decades!
Colour Poem, or Painting with words Susan Edwards (Billiard Room Studio,1995)
White is the expectant page,
Gamboge a laugh of yellow cracking teeth,
Ultramarine an ethereal escape.
Vermillion seeps across the page,
Siena sings of sundrenched earth,
And black is not what it is cracked up to be.
To paint (Billiard room 1995)
To paint is more than learn,
More than know,
Less than achieve
It is more or less
To disappear through
A hole in the canvas,
And meet yourself
On the other side.
Each brush stroke a small death.
2010 The travelling artist collects images while lecturing on Cruise Ships
I am an artist
I do not need to buy your wares.
Locked in my vision
Is the structure of your face,
The patterns of light which move across the land,
The sudden flash of uncaptured colour.
Later I’ll explore,
and through the archaeology
And alchemy of art,
I’ll relive my private history,
And reconstruct the sense of being there.
Privileged view point 03
This particular sunset
Will never come again.
The arrangement of indigo
Tinged with alizarin.
Nor will it ever be seen
By anyone but me.
A privileged viewpoint
is a gift from God.
Wild night in the lane 1995 (Billiard Room)
Often leaving my Billiard Room Studio (Meldon Park, Northumberland) around midnight to drive home to Morpeth after a long portrait painting session, my brain superimposed colours from the painting onto the road home, and I particularly loved driving past the row of Northumbrian wind bent trees at Blackheddon
The purple road
Paints itself before me,
Vanishing into vapour.
Yellow leaves fall like phantoms.
I will the sculpted trees to wait
Till I return,
To brace their sinuous backs
Against ensuing storms.
‘Survive for me
and I will come again in winter
to paint your naked vigour
and all your lovely strength
against the white sheet of the sky’
Getting my mind right at breakfast to face a day’s painting 28 Jan 2021
I’ve got it down to a fine art,
Breakfast with omelette and pills.
The fruitbowl tempts , accuses.
The elegance of pears.
The brown bananas.
The wooden kiwi on the fridge declares
I really did go to New Zealand,
And whisks me off with marmalade
To Isabella Mamatua,
Who revealed to me with anguished eyes
The tribal imposition
Of her tattooed beard.
The portrait on the easel
Terrifies and thrills
With equal force.
While thoughts retreat defensively
Along the shortening road to good intensions.
The portraits waiting mutely
To be finished are
A friend in Linen red
And hat with summer brim,
And mother captured quickly on the rise of fleeting thoughts,
Her age - the same
As I am now.