Andy and Anna peace movement?

This is a post by Swedish artist Anna that was inspired by a conversation on one of my posts-some light hearted comments on a dark-subject post. Our newly fledged Anglo-Scandinavian peace movement. In Polyester or fleece ūüôā

Annas Art - FärgaregårdsAnna

A comments thread that maybe went wild?

You can read the post and the comments to get a picture of what happened. Here’s the link.

https://cityjackdaw.wordpress.com/2017/05/31/a-final-manchester-post-still-the-flowers-grow/

This is the comments that made me create an image in my head




And here‚Äôs the drawing ūüėČ


Thanks Andy for the inspiration to the drawing!

Anna

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Sleepwalking in a hammock

Thought I would share this with you guys. Anna is a Swedish artist, and from a throwaway comment that I made on one of her posts she created this cool picture. So be careful what you say here on WordPress-you never know what it will lead to! There are many ‘weird heads’ out there!! ūüôā

Annas Art - FärgaregårdsAnna

A conversation with Andy from City Jack daw come to be about sleepwalking.

He said something about difficulties to sleepwalk in a hammock.

Those words immediately made a picture in my weird head.

It can’t be easy to rise up and sleep walk in a hammock. Have you tried?

Have a great day all of you!

Anna

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On Poetry:Inspiration

For me, my poems serve as a diary. When I look at them I can remember where I was when I got the idea for each one, and what it was that acted as the initial inspiration. The opening poem in my book, Heading North, is called Midnight, July.

The title indicates the when, but not the where and why.

The words for this one came when I was sat in the back garden with a coffee. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and I was looking up at the stars and wondering whether we could be alone or was there life somewhere out there?

We writhe 

with a rage to know 

the unknowable,


blind to great masses

that dance in dark orbits. 

And a soft, summer wind 

on a night beneath stars 

is no balm.

While I was sat there, neck craned in the quiet of the night, the stillness was broken by the sound of somebody passing by the front of the house, their presence announced by their whistle as they went.

From somewhere a whistle

casts a line,



a fragile camaraderie 

in a world

fell silent,



where white moth-wing

is riotous



and a spider's touch 

carnal.

That faceless person, whoever it was, initiated the close of this poem. Sometimes we go about life oblivious of the effect we have on others, positive or otherwise. And writers can be voyeuristic vampires, stealing in secret what they need from those around them.

I had half of another poem entitled Old Town.  When writing it I had the idea of an American-type run down town in the middle of the desert, with people eking out a life in a place where unknown others lived long before them.

As is their wont,

the ancestors speak of nothing,



just leave their handprints

on rock, drying in shadow.



In sterile dust

we kick

careless trails,



tracks opening up

in animal minds.



In towns

we lay our markers down,



watering holes

within arid charms.



The rats have our number,

wait us out,



sandstorms filling our lungs

like egg timers.

 

I wanted to add a second part to the poem.

Regular readers of City Jackdaw will no doubt know of my love for old photographs. There is one in particular that has featured on my blog a few times before.  It bears the  legend Mary and her Grandfather Jasper. Around 1900. In many cases we never know who the people are in photographs such as this one, but with this we know enough to give it a personal dimension.

I wanted to somehow include this in my book, and so for the second part of this poem I envisaged somebody using it as a bookmark, reading a Truman Capote book (I had¬†The Grass Harp in mind) while, in contrast to the whole ‘heading north’ theme, thinking of the south where the author came from and set his stories.

image

On the porch 

she reads Capote.

Turns her face to the south.



Her bookmark is an old photograph

of an old man; a girl; a dog:

'Mary and her grandfather Jasper, around 1900.'

He: sat, stern and saturnine, wearing the dust. 

She: stood, hand lightly on his shoulder,

glaring at the camera,

facing down posterity:

Not yet. Not yet.




The dog is unnamed.

The birdcage in the window, empty.

In the book there are voices on the wind.

Here, just the parched whisper

of turned vellum.

 

Just weeks before¬†Heading North was to be published I went to stay for a few days in Sweden. It being the furthest north I’d ever been I thought it an ideal opportunity to write something as a last minute addition to my collection of poems.

And thus was born Three Poems In Stockholm. 

The first poem came about when I was staying on a boat that served as a hostel and I was woken early by the sound of a foghorn. On looking out of the cabin window I was greeted by the unexpected sight of a Stockholm blanketed by thick fog.

Anchored mists hold down 

the grey waters

of Saltsjön.



The mournful baritone

of a foghorn

splinters the hull,

grinds the bones,

raises us up

from our slumbering 

wooden berth,



to climb high above

the city's fitful dreams.

 

I got dressed and went for a walk. Wandering around there was hardly anyone else around: it was a Sunday morning and the shops were still closed, even in this capital city.

I found myself on an empty street, myopic in the cataract effect of the fog. Suddenly a girl came into sight. Perhaps in her twenties, she wore a bright chequered dress, and beneath her arm she carried around half a dozen sunflowers.

The contrast between her and her surroundings struck me, and I immediately knew that this encounter would feature in the poem I was writing.

In Södermalm,

shining in a multicoloured,

chequered dress,

a girl breezes along with an armful

of sunflowers,

creating a fissure of brightness

in the milky gloom,

ploughing a passage of light

right through to 

the warm facades of Gamla Stan.

Blind to all else,

we follow her down.





 

Although another two Stockholm based poems followed, this is the one that reminds most of my time there. It was that image I can still see now: within a fog-bound scene a flame-haired girl in a bright dress, clutching yellow sunflowers. A centre of colour in a colourless landscape. It was like a painting.

Of course if I’d have approached her and said I was going to write a poem about her I could have been hit with a restraining order or something much more painful.

So somewhere out there, probably still in Stockholm, there is a girl who inspired a poet and is immortalised in a poem that featured in a book.

And she will never know.

I don’t know about you guys, but I think that’s kinda sad.

 

image

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Heading-North-2-Songs/dp/8283310097/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1486389824&sr=8-1&keywords=heading+north

Northern View

Archipelago between Sweden and Finland, seen from the air. A blue expanse peppered with green, unweilding shapes – like rocks we could hop across on our journey home.

image

Finnair’s menu adds to the northern vibe: an aesthetic of air; of sea and ice; the people and tales. They follow us down.

image

 

When all is said and done

I’m rubbish at art, I wish I could draw. Anna can-here are sketches inspired by the lyrics of When All Is Said And Done by some of her fellow Swedes that you may know as Abba. I love them. Even picked up a pencil. Put it back down again.

Annas Art - FärgaregårdsAnna

More Swedish music inspiration.
Viktoria Tolstoy with Benny Andersson (from ABBA) at the piano.
http://youtu.be/ZqthtyD7Dg4

A song from the Nils Landgren album Funky ABBA
Funky Abba | Nils Landgren
http://www.nilslandgren.com/funky-abba/
An awesome album by the way!

‚ÄúWhen all is said and done‚ÄĚ is one of my favorite ABBA songs. Love the lyrics and the Nils Landgren/Benny Andersson/Viktoria Tolstoy version is great.

So great that the version of the song inspired me to draw the lyricss. I borrowed (didn’t ask for permission) the lyrics and did some drawings.

Here are the drawings. Have fun!

Anna

WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE

when all is said and done_Sida_01when all is said and done_Sida_02when all is said and done_Sida_03when all is said and done_Sida_04when all is said and done_Sida_05when all is said and done_Sida_06when all is said and done_Sida_07when all is said and done_Sida_08when all is said and done_Sida_09when all is said and done_Sida_10when all is said and done_Sida_11when all is said and done_Sida_12when all is said and done_Sida_13when all is said and done_Sida_14when all is said and done_Sida_15when all is said and done_Sida_16when all is said and done_Sida_17when all is said and done_Sida_18when all is said and done_Sida_19

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Poem Preview

My collection of poetry, being published next month by Nordland Publishing, is called Heading North. The poems in it are arranged in a particular order, reflecting a gradual journey from the summer and childhood of the south to the mortality-facing winter of the north. My recent visit to Sweden, being the furthest north I have ever been, was too good an opportunity not to write a last minute poem for my book. Below is an excerpt:

Anchored mists hold down 
the grey waters 
of Saltsjön.

The mournful baritone
of a foghorn
splinters the hull, 
grinds the bones,
raises us up
from our slumbering 
wooden berth,

to climb high above
the city's fitful dreams.

In Södermalm,
shining in a multicoloured,
chequered dress, 
a girl breezes along with an armful
of sunflowers,
creating a fissure of brightness
in the milky gloom,
ploughing a passage of light
right through to
the warm facades of Gamla Stan.
Blind to all else,
we follow her down.


                   - from Three Poems In Stockholm


©AJM

Seven-Shot Stockholm

These photographs were taken on my recent visit to Stockholm. They were actually taken by the friend who accompanied me, but some of the shots were suggested by me. I have the eye, but not the equipment! So, let’s say, we can share a 60-40 credit, yes? In his favour. Begrudgingly.

image

Night falls fast on Stockholm.

image

One of the many cobbled streets of Gamla Stan for me to get lost in. I really could do with an in-built Sat Nav. Pigeons seem to have it sussed.

image

Nobody in sight to ask directions from.

image

Rainy evening, made me think of home.

image

Same again, but with a puddle. It had a Christmas feel to it. The town, I mean, not the puddle.

image

A double rainbow on Gr√∂na Lund. The Abba museum is over there, so it’s obviously a sign that the band are going to reform.

image

The Swedish night, as the sun sets on our Nordic adventure.

Photographs by DJB

Scenes pointed out by me.