Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
give me back what's mine.
"the springtide more golden to me than to the birds" At the moment I have found a lot of inspiration in the Window to the West, The Rediscovery of Highland Art exhibition at the City Arts Centre in Edinburgh. It is a really interesting collection of Scottish art works mainly referencing the development of change in Gaelic culture. An artist I am particularly fond of Will Maclean has also collaborated in installation of a boat which was created using traditional methods. I've also been reading and listening to recordings of Sorley Maclean poems in Gaelic and English, and attempted a little of my own poetry.
Just to share, here are a few Sorley Maclean poems that I would like to create some art to.
SPRING TIDE
Again and again when I am broken
my thought comes on you when you were young,
and the incomprehensible ocean
fills with floodtide and a thousand sails.
The shore of trouble is hidden
with its reefs and the wrack of grief,
and the unbreaking wave strikes
about my feet with a silken rubbing.
How did the springtide not last,
the springtide more golden to me than to the birds,
and how did I lose its succour,
ebbing drop by drop of grief?
SHE TO WHOM I GAVE...
She to whom I gave all love
gave me no love in return;
though my agony was for her sake,
she did not understand the shame at all.
But often in the thoughts of night
when my mind is a dim wood
a breeze of memory comes stirring the foliage,
putting the wood's assuagement to unrest.
And from the depths of my body's wood,
from sap-filled root and slender branching,
there will be the heavy cry: why was her beauty
like a horizon opening the door to day?
Again and again when I am broken
my thought comes on you when you were young,
and the incomprehensible ocean
fills with floodtide and a thousand sails.
The shore of trouble is hidden
with its reefs and the wrack of grief,
and the unbreaking wave strikes
about my feet with a silken rubbing.
How did the springtide not last,
the springtide more golden to me than to the birds,
and how did I lose its succour,
ebbing drop by drop of grief?
SHE TO WHOM I GAVE...
She to whom I gave all love
gave me no love in return;
though my agony was for her sake,
she did not understand the shame at all.
But often in the thoughts of night
when my mind is a dim wood
a breeze of memory comes stirring the foliage,
putting the wood's assuagement to unrest.
And from the depths of my body's wood,
from sap-filled root and slender branching,
there will be the heavy cry: why was her beauty
like a horizon opening the door to day?
His poetry is so beautifully written. Yes... Overall, I am glad I finally ventured outside after being stuck in my flat for about two days and feeling sorry for myself. I love drinking mulled wine at the Edinburgh Christmas market. I have so much university work to do, but I feel completely uninspired about any of the projects we are doing at the moment. Oh well, work work work....
fox takes hare.
A selection of images for my Visual Communication project at Edinburgh College of Art.
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