Thanks Sally, glad you liked it as I hasve enjoyed my Portry Scotland double
dose. Some very interesting stuff in both issues. Each of the stanzas in
"Self Portrait" are a hundred words each and part of my long term project. I
don't think I'm cheating by having two in one. The form was invented by
Julia Copus mid 1990s.
bw
James
>From: Sally Evans <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: New sub: Self Portrait On The Road To Tarascon
>Date: Wed, 28 Aug 2002 09:34:38 +0100
>
>I did one like this once but I didnt know it had a name!
>And a long one where the stanzas were supposed to be read from one to
>nineteen and then back from nineteen to one - like going round an art
>gallery in one direction and then back again in the other direction, I
>said.
>A friend of mine wrote a palindrome poem recetly, where the words of the
>first part returned in the opposite order, and made a different but
>complementary sort of sense.
>
>As this does. I think it is very good.
>SallyE
>
> > This is a specular poem, one stanza is a mirror image of the other. It
> > seemed appropriate for the subject. The title is from a painting by Van
>Gogh
> > that now exists only in reproduction and fascinated Francis Bacon so
>much he
> > did a series of six paintings in homage. Tell me what you think.
> >
> > SELF PORTRAIT ON THE ROAD TO TARASCON
> >
> > He finally burns in fire-bombed Dresden,
> > through his colours, like a cat,
> > takes on other lives - remains
> > consumed by the landscape he places himself within.
> > Not painting, he walks instead
> > motionless, outside the space our eyes view him.
> > Exact centre
> > he portrays an awkward marionette entwined
> > in adamantine vertical and horizontal grids
> > of horizon trees and road
> > with no order of perspective,
> > stuck in the never-never land of his journey with backpack
> > somewhere between dimensions two and three
> > where his shadow finds consolation
> > on the picture surface rather than the road -
> > yet to face his monsters his form tarries.
> >
> > Yet to face his monsters his form tarries
> > on the picture surface rather than the road -
> > where his shadow finds consolation
> > somewhere between dimensions two and three
> > stuck in the never-never land of his journey with his pack
> > with no order of perspective
> > of horizon trees and road.
> > In adamantine vertical and horizontal grids
> > he portrays an awkward marionette entwined.
> > Exact centre,
> > motionless outside the space our eyes view him,
> > not painting, he walks instead
> > consumed by the landscape he placed himself within,
> > takes on other lives - remains
> > through his colours, like a cat.
> > He finally burns in fire-bombed Dresden.
> >
> >
> > bw
> > James
> >
> >
> > _________________________________________________________________
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bw
James
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