In an artful union of painting and poetry, Jacob Polley has written 12 poems in response to pictures from the Darlington Borough Art Collection.
Commissioned last year to write about 19th and 20th Century artworks, Jacob studied more than 500 paintings before choosing his favourites.
The poet wrote about 30 poems before slimming down a selection to be exhibited at the Myles Meehan Gallery, alongside the paintings which inspired them. He views it as a collaboration between himself and the artists.
Jacob, 29, from Carlisle, says: "I didn't want to provide a reading of what you can see in front of you, but wanted to tap into the atmosphere and tones of the pictures."
The poems are almost entirely without punctuation, which is not how Jacob ordinarily writes, and he explains that his writing for this project became song-like.
Jacob, who is published by Picador, says: "The silence of the pictures, and of galleries in general, pushed me even harder than normal away from the page: the poems are written for the voice, they're supposed to be spoken."
* In The Return by Jacob Polley is at the Myles Meehan Gallery, Darlington Arts Centre, until March 26. It's open Monday to Saturday from 10am to 8pm. Contact: (01325) 348843.
A limited edition catalogue accompanies the exhibition.
**********
Miners in the return
Is it blue down below in the earth And what do you pay to break stone's silence And where does it hurt most and is it your eyes When the cage is hauled up to the air and the sky And what did you see in the working face Whose black masks you wear on the surface As if you're sworn upon a hidden purpose Only detailed to you when you opened the rock And whose back did you watch to remember your own So you weren't turned to stone and built upon And when you were down did you feel the weights Of cathedrals parliaments prisons and docks And wonder who it was whose footsteps fell Upon the earth you were falling through And do you treasure the light Or hate the lamp for what it guides you to And how many years down must you go to smell Brimstone stardust and coprolites And in the return to the world do you know How narrowly living is squeezed between The airless above and the airless below Tom McGuinness (b.1926)
***********
The Circus Tent
To make room in the middle of nowhere And borrow enough space from the sky For the tumblers and tightrope walkers The sawdust and ringmaster's black top-hat For the girls to balance on the stallions' backs And the strongman to lift Lily the Lie On the palm of his calloused hand And hold her while she tells a whopper No-one watching will ever have heard And as it gets longer to have them wonder At her wit and her way with all the words And at how utterly still he stands. Erick Hesketh Hubbard (1892-1957)
**********
Beech tree
My mattress stuffed with beech leaves Becomes a bed of voices For whoever sheltered in the shadow of the true tree's arms. And didn't covet or curse Or plan to do harm Whoever murmured while they slept Or muttered to themselves Or with another as unlucky Talked until dawn of distant homes While the wood rolled round them like the sea Their words echoed and re-echo Through the living tree That in their honour utters leaves. John Alexander Kim (19th Century)
Article
