A poem is a painting in embryo.
I sketch black or grey lines on white paper
As witness to scenarios in my head,
A quilted landscape of interweaved colours
That would dazzle any sleepers, old or infant,
Trying to get some sorely needed rest.
No paintbox can provide paints bright enough
When a clear account needs to be provided
Of scenes drifting by my inner eye,
Or what I witness when I`m wide awake
And staring glum out of the back room window
At rain zipping through the July gardens,
Tearing blooms to shreds.
So I must revert to words scratched on cheap paper
To try and get my thoughts into your head
Because my paint brush cannot work the trick
To show you what I mean.
I thought at first the picture on my calendar
Lacked clear focus, lacked any depth or truth,
Yet this print by Hiroshige is so dream like
It seems to me he mastered a technique
To paint with inks the world transgressed by visions
To make it magical.
For some reason trees are flowering in July,
Maytime translated to the height of summer.
The turquoise bay, ice still, no white waves curling,
Recalls a mirror reflecting only sky.
The islands are stone ships that travel nowhere.
The pink and yellow houses look like boxes
Stacked in line below the opulent hill,
And not a single person walks the green land.
If I could paint one scene like Hiroshige,
Emulate his timelessness and space,
I would burn every word that I have written
On my backyard bonfire of the vanities
And set to making prints.
My thoughts would then connect straight with your thoughts,
Drifted to you on a raft of colours.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
31st. July 2021.
Poem No. 7 month of July, Hiroshige series of illustrations on my 2021 calendar.
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