Thursday, November 1, 2012

Poetry and Art

A poem about Brighton, by Andrew Coyle, is painted on a wall in the new PopUp area by Jim Hobby.

New Brighton
By Andrew Coyle

by a strong skulled forehead
you pace the streets
with this mind full
                   of an abstract curse
to document your struggle
         with words torn
into poems by the wind
gusts as if it’s just
enough to say  
            the pitbull is harmless
the sand dunes are charming
the surf is disarming
            the children are happy
and we remember the golden days…

Now you have that mad brilliance of character that
has endeared towns to poets
since the beginning of time,

The erratic motions,  the whirling amygdala,
here,                           here and
and in the theatre of the forehead

from where we stand,         
and call in our own voices 

from the New Brighton pier
 still and slow
  and hovering above the wind whipped ocean
a moment suspended in time,

so we call to the moon as our planet spins to greet it
and we call to the waves as the moon pull releases it
 and we call to the wind to whisk the past
out from a friends face, half covered in hair,
smiling and turning into pieces
the basic emotions rolling in
and rolling out
so natural and  so yearning to be celebrated,
beyond any other celebration of life,
 that knows just to be alive
is just to be alive and to
speak our minds

 to speak to this struggle
and say I see in your face,
my friend,

an ancient soul
lived long and hard
and laughing loud at the crash of waves
trickling down your cheeks onto
an endless page
made endless by the
timeless poets
who channel their visions
through the winds from horizons
into sea rhythms and wind words,

 and blow them softly from our mouths into the
hearts of the people we love,

New Brighton,
drunk on old European
            battered by
 your head half dependant
 on       light                innocent and
sinners with
blacknailed   fingers tied to
the       turn of the                  sky

when the clouds darken and the
winds rise to bend your backs like the trees      
blowing fresh  ocean  flesh   
 from our old friend
the sea           
into the town
of our dreams,
            into the town of our    

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