Brian Marks
Home page : The Grit Band : Brian's Art
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Rhythm of seasons, pull of moon
and tide, the celestial round.
Hibernation, sleeping, waking,
biological clock, heart beating.
Cosmic vibration, chaos, harmony,
life death cycle, sowing, reaping.
No thoughts, no words, no language
needed, the message is there, achieve
a balance, the picture is clear, we
are the pulse, we are this universe,
mother nature my religion. |
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Grey people talk a lot but say nothing
they drag you into the dark recesses
of mediocrity, draw you into a void
of inconsequence where there is no
place to hide your embarrassment.
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This cloak of intellect you wear
creates an illusion it's not fair
you wear it well but you're not
fooling anyone only yourself.
Quoting lines from books you've read
storing facts and figures in your head
but will you recall that if you don't know
yourself you know nothing at all.
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Take a taxi down to Jobims bar
you can drink his wine and dance
with the cool school,
no matter where you are come down
to this midnight shangrila.
Meet the lady with the samba glide
she drinks blue Margaritas
salute Cuba Libre
you could be out all night
and have a tale to tell
life is a Mardi Gras.
Lets party with sand on our toes
ice beer on the brain
to the Rio de Janeiro sound
isto ē a bossa nova the
smoothest sound around
and while the music plays
as the candles burn
if you need to know
it’s the place to learn.
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La maison a cote de la mer
There was a whitewashed
house at Boulogne sur Mer
inside lay a carpet strewn threadbare
blue stucco plaster cracked and grey
so bright and vibrant yesterday.
Louvred shutters barred the window
empty bottles paved the floor
musty sacks and candle wax
crumbs of cheese, a bolted door.
Lobster pots amidst the gloom
inlaid with dust adorned the room
fishing nets upon the wall
draped effortlessly in the hall.
Oilskins, waders, worn sou’wester,
long gone now my friend le pecheur.
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It was there, downstairs
in the smoky cellar,
a murky twilight underworld
of hedonists and offbeat poets
who dwell in timeless sabbatical,
or was it somewhere in a dream
that I heard Bechstein whisper
"Bohemia was never this cool”?
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No social rounds
esprit de corps,
no corporate targets
any more.
No cash flow statements
profit, loss, statistics,
operating costs.
No codes of practice
deadlines, rules, no future
in the hands of fools.
No office stress
please give me space
transfer me to
the human race. |
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Old masters of merit
must spin in their graves
at this sick revolution
in art making waves.
Contrived, pretentious
denouncing all laws
dictating the future
to growing applause.
Gone are the old ways
of pastels and paint
canvas and palette
of taste and restraint.
Ingenuous fashion
this artistic void
where odious methods
are duly employed.
Anonymous animals
butchered for sport
immersed in formaldehyde
gaining support.
Ringing the death knell
the ultimate dread
art is imploding
Dada is dead.
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Undercover works the chronicler
whose mission is to serve, enlightening
a city with the calligraphic word.
Using statements of defiance some political,
obscene, the chronicler claims new frontiers
where none before have been.
With an aerosol can in both hands
the writings on the wall, defacing
public property aesthetic art or scrawl?
Short on basic etiquette spontaneous inspired This authors English grammar
Leaves a lot to be desired. |
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Basking in the summers heat, wings outstretched, euphoric
a butterfly sipped nectar from tall blossoms in a fragrant garden
then airborne it flew through dappled light, flapping in erratic flight
conspicuous its insobriety.
A cautionary tale the butterfly dance
for then a hungry bird swooped down
dispatched its unwitting prey
and within a fleeting glance, was gone.
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We are living in a world of the artificial fly
the apex of technology which no-one would deny
outwitting mother nature is a marvellous thing to stress
and the "Classic" British angler knows the secret of success.
Two feathers and a pinch of fur though primitive maybe
push the barriers of science to a staggering degree
seducing trout and salmon not uncultured or naive
to this multi-coloured morsel that they willingly receive.
So next time you hear the story of the one that got away
please raise a glass of Claret and shout loud
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This wretched weed of wasteland,
ditch and rutted track,
trodden and forgotten,
a lowly thing of disregard.
Do we not think to know its past,
its use, its lore, its character,
or deign to stop and share one moment,
its complexity.
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Brian has recently completed two other books, a herbal titled "A Gardeners Apothecary" a history of medicinal plants and trees found growing wild on the Lyme Park estate in Disley and a detailed autobiographical journal titled "General Notes and Observations" written between 1984 and 2004. |
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