On a cool June afternoon, seven poets gathered at Potton Hall to visit the Waveney & Blyth Sculpture Trail and trace its path of artistry and inspiration.
“Be inspired!” was the exhortation from Suffolk Poetry Society, of which they were all keen members. And indeed they were inspired!
Some had visited the outdoor exhibition previously and some had visited the website photographs to gain their inspiration. The poems, some of which you can read here, responding to the sculptures and installations, all demonstrate the magnificent individuality, the creative quirkiness of the human mind, its intuitive sensitivity and its sense of humour. The poems also demonstrate a poet’s love of language and how art in whatever form it manifests connects the heart of the viewer and listener to the heart of the creator and his motivation, to his thoughts, materials and, in this site-sensitive exhibition, to the location of the piece or installation.
Another Use Of Chicken Wire
After The Bitterest Pill by Nick Ball
The plastic bottles are empty, the tins are without
their food contents and the beer cans have been drained.
Soon they will be welcomed at the re-cycling centre.
And that is how it should be.
But in the real world that nice garden over there,
that beauty spot by the river or that playground
provide spaces for the chuck-it, ditch-it, drop-it brigade.
After all it’s not on their patch, not in their backyard.
The environment isn’t their problem; it is someone else’s.
They’re not responsible for the greenhouse gases,
the threat to the ozone layer, the climatic changes
or the export of litter to third world countries.
So where does this leave us, the ones that care. How do we
get the message across? Tell them to Keep Britain Tidy,
Take Litter Home or Bin It. More fines? More sanctions?
Or maybe Nick Ball has shown us the way?
That chicken wire is shaped like a cod liver oil capsule.
Perhaps we could all take a responsibility tablet once a day-
after breakfast maybe. So, come on GlaxoSmithKline.
Come clean, go green.
After Litter by Dide Siemmond
I’ve just thrown away a finished pack.
I hope the pills have done their job,
those cocoons of potent drugs,
small sarcophagi nestled in foil.
I press them out, swallow in one gulp
with a glass of cold water from the tap.
Sometimes they refuse to leave my mouth
or get stuck half-way down my throat.
I have to schedule the day to take them
at the right time, one hour before a meal
or two hours after, evenly spaced between
morning and night. No sign of side effects.
I take for granted their power, fling away
the empty shell without serious thought.
After Cynosure by Mark Goldsworthy
Her smooth rounds,
her voluptuous curves
relaxed with a sigh into the marble.
This marble has waited for eons
to express the sigh of a woman
who has waited for eons
to relax into marble.
And time still passes by
without stopping to comment
or to make its mark.
No further mark to make.
Find out more about Suffolk Poetry Society here.