A few years ago I wrote a poem entitled “Bluebells”. I tried to address the central problem of bluebell type phenomena – namely that what you see is not what you get. If you try to see the detail, the picture runs away from you. If you try to take a photo, you capture the picture but not the vision. I believe that moments of a particular point in time and space require both the reality and the human mind to draw the whole picture. I think this is why we have poets and I am sure this is why we still have painters. These days you could take a photo of a bluebell wood and photo-shop it with all manner of effects. At the end of it you could know everything about frequency curves and contrast balance. And it would not satisfy.
I had gone to the wood with granddaughter. In the morning it had rained but at that moment the sun was warming the air into a perfumed blue mist. It was that vision that gave rise to the poem. It is now a few years later that I have had the chance to possess a picture not only of a bluebell wood, but of my emotions at that time. The artist is Sara Barnes and you can check out her art here.
One of the most wonderful things to have happened in my lifetime is that technology has handed the open mike, not only to the cognoscenti already in the club, but also to the guys pressing their faces to the window outside. The establishment bouncers can but look punchy in their one size too small jackets as the mob get their moment. I have felt for many years that straight forward representational ART has had too little attention. Sara Barnes paints the scene and what she feels about it. The result is emotional and delicious.
Here is my little poem about Bluebells:
Now my child and I
Come to the bluebell wood
In the perfume of their afternoon,
In the drifting aching aria
Of their final vanity.
The cool life larva flows
From all that has known
The rhythm of this Earth –
This soul of blueness.
I think to snatch a prisoner
But this beauty does not rise from blooms
Nor from any labelled plan.
It teases singing through the trees
Melting from the conscious mind
Like fabric from a flame.
My child goes now to gather them –
I acquiesce now knowing that
Our growth, this mortal flower
Is rooted in our winters past
Our sorrow, our bluebells.
Sara holds exhibitions, sells paintings and will accept commissions. She has produced a painting for me which is as transcendent as the moment when I stood at the edge of a blue poem. It will be a treasure.