* dedicated to the lasting imagery of the poetry of Brian Morrison
who may be found by following this possibly not quite the lovliest of links
Brian's web site

Upon the painting - Another Time and Plaice

when the weather day
and the carry scent of the plush carpet of rain
wept through the earths dull frame
to be as tears among the candelabra
of the unlit melodies of caves
primitive and deep beyond
the dreaming stalagmite of intuition
whose uplifted arms gave song
to the sub-terrain chants of the rivers of hope
we wait at the exit of the all things for the slow blue brooks
the congealed dreaming that is our spiritual measure
its drear upon the face of day
upon its exit from the darker world of birth
and trapped within the thin membrane that some call life
the wanker Brian Morrison tried to write and sort of wrote

"womb of time
sacramental tomb of lime
wherein whose small candle burns small light
spill out upon the night
spill out my life in projection
split my spirit from its progenator light and logic and inflection
white and black as remembered charactar
whose human lettered shame may with lifes pages spar
honestly I do not feel the blights of shame
nor by consequence that which confers blame
persistent flame echo and gutter
in the yellow cupping like golden hands
and its string black chord that divines its pathway
rim shadow cast beneath my blank eyes sway
where a many midge had danced before a mirror
so i saw myself reversed as others saw me in small fits
faced with rills and ridge and rivulets that define its charactar its
dull eyes over shaddowed by the consequnce of years
like the sails of trees upon a seasons seas
whose elements are its launches
winds spin the break off branches
howling and bowling its secrets
across the tumbled earth and winters sunsets
its watch, its blows
in ways expose
piece upon piece
the elements of decay
and strip that unecessary whit from which-a-day
the labour freed one may move with much less weight
though perhaps a less adroitly state
for a damage is nere to be repaired but borne
forever as a scar or scars horn"

she awoke and in spring
her bark was wet her buds were wet and sap green
with all that it implies
and shadows lengthen at her base
dappled shadows ever moving
the days whispering through her green form
narrate her irate story to the skies and birds and grasses all
a song of questions fall upon the shaddow and its roots
we bow before them
bending near the answer
swaying lightly in it's chorus
she spoke in leaves of green

"embrace your tribulation sadness and lamenting
embrace your happiness success and faith
remeber if you will upon the toil of error
and search another better place
for this question it is mine
my spirit of eternity becomes the sun
or its reflection fleeting in the passing river
flecked upon the downy banks"

for in another time and place
Brian Morrison had painted cumberland like sausages her limber legs and
arms and fingers soul and all
its was woe in white and black
and flecked with snowy down the background
in latin white and hair like roman tar
and gallic piquancy she cried
the calls of prostitutes who in good faith
had received promises of youth and fame
and received just small worth instead
for their scabby soul inflected world
and you may think from this
i disrespect the painting
how wrong you foolish people are
his anxiety and disquiet in the moving things of worlds
is captive as a trauma in its womb of art
and indeed a joy obscured a soubriquet of his sorry soul
but alas a fool may try to literalise his process
and in the tiny lexicon of brain
he disrespects the genesis to which alone a paint and brush
are gifted
and as leaves fall weakly they cannot be trees
and may be disected by the coming winter into skeletal fibre
you must understand brain of Brian that repression and religion
are not one and that though its power drives you like
a spring
its force counterposed within yet it needs
the external force compassion and ego bring
yet rain may be a river or a sea
yet the rain may furinsh seeds with life
and become the tree reborn