Poetry and imagesSusana Noth-Bates and Monika Kostera: How we meet in the imagination Michelle Holland and Monika Kostera Brian Holland and Monika Kostera Monika Kostera and Mandy Payne Monika Kostera and John Slavin Monika Kostera and Dorothy Ann Simister How We Meet in the Imagination
Susana North-Bates paintsMonika Kostera writesThis is Ireland and I'm myself, by Susana North-Bates
Dreaming Ireland where we used to sail maybe a thousand years ago I remember so well your song and the sea You - the colour blue Me - the colour green
Offering to Ing, by Susana North-Bates
Take this offering, Ing and remember me to your sleeping passenger, the Sun, may you both enjoy. Listen to wild songs of grass, of sheer razor green buds, of the madness of blooming, and the flutter, the flutter of everything. Sing him the fierce, untameable joy of what you both are, yet will never know. Spring only comes to mortals.
Susana North-Bates
Sing to me, mermaids. The sea is generous For the journey was long Where the sea is generous. So sing to me, mermaids, The Shaman's Boat, by Susana North-Bates Glitter
Michelle Holland creates artworkMonika Kostera writes
Musical wave, By Michelle Holland
Iona seaglass and driftwood book, by Michelle Holland Read me the sea from the cover of waves through the currents and thrills to the depths where the pull is so strong you must read until dawn. Read me suspense and plots of the ebb and the flow. Pause at commas and hyphens of the shoals of fish. Trust the bubbly apostrophes to be lyric or grave. Read away so deep and so wild through the darkness and twirls caught in the black sands. Read with eyes sore from strain until you fall all the way down to the end - unsettled and dreamy, safely tucked away in the seabed. Wester Ross Seaglass and driftwood book, by Michelle Holland Brian Holland scupltsMonika Kostera writes
In Brian Hollan's studio
Springing from a common root now as in ancient Cyprus, four thousand years ago here they are! the sculptor knows exactly where to look Like fairy rings they grow and dance the rites of mycelium The sculptor calls them by their names in fire and they stop for him to tell the oldest tale that makes us human: the song of of pottery and poetry In Brian Holland's studio
Bronze age pottery excavated at Kition, Cyprus Monika Kostera writesMandy Payne paintsParadise Lost, by Mandy Payne Dreams cast in concrete Then a time of displacement The artist stops and listens; She invokes them gently: Abandonded Utopia, by Mandy Payne Link to the Overlooked exhibition blog John Slavin paintsMonika Kostera writesThe Road to Montsegur, by John Slavin
Pictures of anarchy Chestnut Root, Vallespir, by John Slavin
Bugarach from Rennes-les-Bains, by John Slavin
Autumn Afternoon Bugarach with Tree, by John Slavin
Autumn Beech Forest South of Bugarach, by John Slavin John Slavin's paintings at Sutton Gallery Dorothy Ann Simister paintsMonika Kostera writes
Dorothy Ann Simister, Butchered reflection All concurrent worlds Dorothy Ann Simister's website John MacLeod singsMonika Kostera writes
He tuned his guitar and we hopped on his train the moon shining black over Isle of Man We met some good friends and the devil danced The blues is a gift of pure sadness transmuting to grace It flows wherever it pleases you hear it but don’t ask it to stay We parted ways but the journey was good and it went exactly like this.
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