Listening to Radio 4
“Start the week” speaking of creativity
I listen whilst I look at the photographs now
hanging from tiny clothes pegs
slightly askew but, for the first time
I can see them as a whole.
As I stare, patterns appear
the mystery of close up
the sexual, the erotic, connotations
still, silent objects, everyday items
waiting forever, suspended, patient
Displaying for me the myth of inductive logic
Expectation based on past experience
ended abruptly
possession now dispossessed
Their use, once integral, as dead as he who owned
A few things escape my classification
Should I modify or abandon
Sandals neither in nor out
Looking now, it seems that the fasteners are what fascinates.
Boots, waisted like a corset
the shape distracts from laces touched, tugged,
and tied a hundred, a thousand times.
Stacked summer shirts lean for support
settling into folds as they jostle for comfort
In uniform on store hangers
winter shirts march across the frame, heads turned
away from me
A mountain of underpants
geology of years laid down in layers
unfathomable
Crushed rivulets compressed in trousers
of disturbed design.
A stack of jumpers
populated by suckered lips
like strange sea creatures, patient and watchful
Socks huddle together for comfort
a demented Freudian dream of penis loss
The tiny pegs catch my attention
yellow, blue, red – holding suspended
the source of my imaginings
and I try to level my photographic washing
tidiness becomes essential, an echo
There is an understanding that I cannot be sloppy
though I can be wrong
Colours disappear, a peg is just a peg
no longer visible
But although the images seems strong
there is fragility in this display
Curled white tails of string
Unassuming, hold all together
A heart, central to the composition
I have made
A seductive, empty void wearing protective sleeve
drawing me closer, deeper.
blacker even than the density of darkness
below a vortex of belts, coiled
A snake like Catherine wheel with shining buckles
burns a circle
hollowed from ritual and desire
The rhythm of the folding
handkerchiefs
stacked higher than the habits of a lifetime
in honour
And the satchel, isolated, iconic
to which, I pay homage
worn, handled, repaired, its skin
polished and curled into a shape that fitted
Purposefully, I stare
but it reveals nothing
secrets closed for ever
a shoulder strap bowed in prayer.