by RUSSELL BATEMAN

to a muse

T was a dreary day in the realm of clay,
In a room where colour is shunned,

Where the sense of form, far above the norm,
Leaves every other - like, stunned.

But at a certain phase, in sets malaise,
(Maybe its all that dust),

When all one can do is look outside in lieu
Of love, of languour, of lust...

But that’s too erotic - this month’ s Exotic- -
So other fish I must fry.

Where can I gaze, to strange far-off ways...
And for the lazy, preferably close-by...

Ah! But of course! our natural resource-
That place they call Charles H. Scott
With no more delay I’ Il thither make way

To see if it’s art or it’s rot.

‘Works on Paper ‘ is the name of their caper
And from all of the bottles I saw,

‘T’ was my perception it was the reception
With artists and art for to awe.

But my ardour soon faded. Perhaps I’m just jaded
From jostling ‘twixt works to and fro,

As crowds without number my soul do encumber,
Distracting and stressing me so.

This milieu insane the work doth profane
Conceived once in passion, I think.

But it’s future is doom if it’s born in this room
And delivered by Lust and by Drink.

Despite all the art it was only a part
That ever grew smaller than small,
The noise. And those yearnings. That certainly weren't turning

Towards those damn blots on the wall.

Escape! I must fly those fates to defy,
Talking ‘n’ Gawking ‘n’ Mocking.

To flee from the face of their awful embrace
And return when the place is less shocking.

And so, today. Prepared for dismay
I entered the dimly lit room.

Behold my surprise when I opened my eyes
To a place that once seemed a bright tomb.

But before we do tour the work’ s new allure

A caveat I first must afix.

To each is his own, my words and my tone
Aren't always immune to fault’ s tricks.

A plain Joe’ s sake is the stance that I take,
A man whose time can't avail

To know every tort, need or cavort
Of each artist in smallest detail.

VOL.4 NO.6

For I must admit ‘t'is my own gambit
Art’ s language and likewise must claim
Direct or allusive its best if condusive
To idea’ s, sooner or later, made plain.

Dear Reader, I fear, you think I’ ll just sneer,
Not true, I daren'’ t distort.

For all that can be had, there’s good and there’ s bad,
Of bothT Il gladly report.

So, left of the door we see the framed four
Labyrinths of Allison Clay.

And underneath, text, not really complex
That defines what she seeks to convey.

To her I do owe it she’s not a bad poet,
I look forward to reading some more,
But the point once taken does not leave one achin’
To view labyrinths two, three, and four.

And why write at all, if once back from the wall
The image to full comprehend,

The words disappear, leaving I fear,
Dull drawings I cannot defend.

The writing refined delineates confined
Places and feelings and actions.

But the renderings of labyrinths betray too much abberance -
It needs a much tighter reaction.

Image and text is a marriage complex,
Their relations one can't tear asunder.

I wishI could praise but I’m less than a-Mazed
With walls the artist fell under.

The next few grey works for me do exert
Old memories from so long ago,

When with paper and pencil and penny as stencil
I rubbed as you might have also.

Now Koenker first wraps with numerous straps
Each object she sets forth to scrub -
Its’ form now obscure increases allure,
What is it? Ah, that is the rub.

Onward we go to continue the show,
To a work by Rick Williams called ‘Glance’ .
From his series of ‘Seams’ this one I do deem
Worth pondering, but I must look askance

At another called ‘Cry’ and I’ Il tell you why:
Because of its’ tired retentions

Of Marilyn and Mona I canna’ condone a
Work despite worthy intentions.

Then off to the right we next meet the might
Of a ‘Portrait’ stacked high like 3-D.
McWilliams ensures a lot of detours
Of thinking as you'll plainly see.

A worthy stand-in for the soul’ s always been
The chair as you might all know,

And a thing incomplete was a portrait deplete
Of the bod’ for the Greeks long ago.

Then you might see its’ divided in three,
One frame surmounted on two,

Through which one might march as if ‘t' were an arch -
Suggestive? I leave it to you.

Then what is most fit in a chair but to sit?
Indeed that’ sits’ natural vocation.

But the woman she stands as if to command,
Perhaps one who'd rise to the occasion?

Now quick! A barrage! Joey Morgan’ s collage
Is then what seduces the eyes.

Very enthusing but somewhat confusing
Not knowing in what context it lies.

Let us now pause to address our applause
To the Cone’ s of Katherine Knight.

I can’t help surrender to the colours she tenders
An orgy of endless delight.

Then moving on back we encounter some black

And white drawings from the hand of this Pearson.
Very simple charms that barely disarms

My urge to be somewhat more fearsome.

Now only one more just before the front door,
From Rome a new still-life derived.

Duschene’s special catalyst was a poet called Catullus
Whose voice in the work she’s revived.

Likewise my bent is to the past to relent,
Their people who lived, laughed, and tried,

So in general I favour Duschene’s special labour
But a weak spot to you I confide.

Not great, I suppose, Its finely composed,
Well balanced, its airy and light.

But thosefour rows of slats seemmore kibachis in stacks
Than old moldings if I dare think aright.

Abstract it may be but its crucial you see
The text to reflect and fill out.

If the image falls short it cannot support
Whatever the words started out.

Well, its been a slice The word must be “nice”
To fix overall to this show.

Though I can't help but feeling I'd rather be reeling
From works more exciting, you know.

But no time to lose - I’m through with reviews.
Make hay while the sun bravely shines.

Its back to the clay bog and silica dust smog
I’ ve come to the end of the lines.

by RUSSELL BATEMAN
e@ge

toa muse

T'was-a dreary day in the realm of clay,
Ina room where colour is shunned,

Where the sense of form, far above the norm,
Leaves every other - like, stunned.

But ata certain phase, in sets malaise,
(Maybe its all that dust),

When all one can dois look outside tn ew
Of love, of languour, of lust.

But that's too erotic - this month's Exotic. -
So other fish I mus fry

Where can gate, to strange far-off ways.
‘And for the lazy, preferably close-by.

Ah! But of course! our natural resource-
That place they call Charles H. Scott
With no more delay I'll thither make way

To see ifit's art or it's rot.

Works on Paper ‘is the name of ther caper
And from all ofthe bottles I saw

“Twas my perception it was the reception
With artists and art for to awe.

But my ardour soon faded. Perhaps I'm just jaded
From jostling “twixt works to and fro,

‘As crowds without number my soul do encumber,
Distracting and stressing me so.

This milieu insane the work doth profane
Conceived once in passion, I think

But it's future is doom if it's born in this room
‘And delivered by Lust and by Drink.

Despite all the art it was only a part
That ever grew smaller than small,

Thenoise. Andthose yearnings. Thatcertainly weren't turning

Towards those damn blots onthe wall,

scape! I mus fy those ates to defy,
Talking 'n'Gawking 'n’ Mocking.

Toflee from the face oftheir avful embrace
‘and return when the place isles shocking.

‘And 0, today. Prepared for dismay
Tentered the dimly lt room.

Behold my surprise when I opened my eyes.
To a place that once seemed a bright tomb.

But before we do tour the work's new allure

A caveat first must afi.

To each s his own, my words and my tone
‘Aren't always immune to faults tricks.

A plain Joe's sake is the stance that I take,
‘Aman whose time can't avail

To know every tort, need or cavort
Of each artist in smallest detail

For I must admit ‘is my own gambit
Art's language and likewise must claim

Director allusve its best f condusive
To idea's, sooner or later, made plain.

Dear Reader, I fear, you think I'l just sneer,
Not true,  daren't distor

For all that can be had, here's good and there's bad,
Of both Ul gladly report

So, left ofthe door we see the framed four
Labyrinths of Alison Clay.

And underneath, text, not really complex
That defines what she seeks to convey.

To her I do owe it she's nota bad poet,
look forward to reading some more,
But the point once taken does not leave one akin’
To view labyrinths two, three, and four

And why write atall, if once back rom the wall
The image to full comprehend,

The words disappear, leaving I fear,
Dull drawings I cannot defend.

The writing refined delineates confined
Places and feelings and actions.

Butthe renderings oflabyrinths betray too much abberance -
Itneeds a much tighter reaction.

Image and text is a marriage complex,
Their relations one can't tear asunder.

wish I could praise but I'm less. than a-Mazed
With walls the artist ell under.

The next few grey works for me do exert
Old memories from so long ago,

When with paper and pencil and penny as stencil
Trubbed as you might have also.

Now Koenker first wraps with numerous traps
Each object she ses forth to serub ~

Its’ form now obscure increases allure
Whatis it? Ah, that isthe rub.

Onward we goo continue the show,
To a work by Rick Williams called ‘Glance’
From his series of ‘Seams’ this one I do deem
Worth pondering, but I must look askance

‘Atanother called "Cry andl tell you why:
Because ofits tired retentions

(OfMarityn and Mona I canna’ condone a
Work despite worthy intentions

Then off to the right we next meet the might
Ofa ‘Portrait’ stacked high lke 3-D.
‘McWilliams ensures a lot of detours
Of thinking as you'l plainly see.

‘A worthy stand-in for the soul's always been
The chair as you might all know,

‘And a thing incomplete was a portrait deplete
(Of the bod’ for the Greeks iong ago.

Then you might see its’ divided in three,
One frame surmounted on two,

Through which one might marchas if’ were anarch~
‘Suggestive? I leave it t0 you.

Then what is most fit in a chair but to sit?
Indeed that's its’ natural vocation.

But the woman she stands as if command,
Perhaps one who'd rise to the occasion?

Now quick! A barrage! Joey Morgan's collage
Is then what seduces the eyes

Very enthusing but somewhat confusing
‘Not knowing in what contex it lies

Let us now pause to address our applause
To the Cone’ of Katherine Knight.

can't help surrender to the colours she tenders
Anorgy of endless delight

Then moving on back we encounter some black
‘And white drawings from the hand of this Pearson.
Very simple charms that barely disarms
‘My urge to be somewhat more fearsome.

‘Now only one more just before the front door,
From Rome a new still-life derived,

Duschene's special catalyst was a poet called Catullus
Whose voice in the work she's revive.

Likewise my bent isto the past to relent,
Their people who lived, laughed, and tied,

So in general I favour Duschene's special labour
‘But a weak spot to you I confide.

Not great, suppose, Is finely composed,
Well balanced, its airy and light.
Butthosefourrowsofslatsseemmore kibachisin stacks
Than old moldings if dare think aright

Abstract it may be but its crucial you see
The text to reflect and fll out.

Ifthe image falls short it cannot support
Whatever the words started out.

Well, its been a slice The word must be “nice”
To fix overall to this show.

Though I can't help but feeling I'd rather be reeling
From works more exciting, you know.

‘But no time to lose -I'm through with reviews.
‘Make hay.while the sun bravely shines.

1s back to the clay bog and silica dust smog
T've come to the end of the lines.