madebymotive: Huw Evans
The Sputnik poet's entry to the madebymotive exhibition
In an off the cuff remark on the phone a few days before the festival, Benjamin Harris agreed to hand write each of the 4 poems we were exhibiting on to our display boards. Over the course of about 5 hours on the following Friday and Saturday, he fulfilled this agreement (with the help of a band of helpers that increased in inverse proportions to the amount of time left before the exhibition opened).
It was well worth it though, as pieces by Huw Evans, Sharon Clark, Jess Wood and Lex Loizides were given the space they deserved.
I thought I’d share Huw’s poem with you all. Whether 6 feet high etched in black marker or in wordpress’ serif free font of choice, it’s an evocative and beautiful piece of work. Underneath it is Huw’s explanation of what motivates him, which is itself pretty much a work of art 😉
On Mistress Joan’s Passing
(Joan Aiken 1924 – 2004)
Sweep from the hearth the flakes of grey,
ash from the apple wood last night.
We shall not have a fire today
with cunning flames which feed and prey
on wood to swell their tangle bright.
Sweep from the hearth the flakes of grey,
the sap is spent, no shadows play
like ghosts of wood in clash and fight,
we shall not have a fire today
transforming things we know by day
to mysteries and half delight.
Sweep from the hearth the flakes of grey
and spread them gently where they may
inspire new trees to greater height.
We shall not have a fire today,
although the room chills we shall stay
and talk in darkness of the light.
Sweep from the hearth the flakes of grey
we shall not have a fire today.
Why does anyone write? Dr Johnson said no one but a fool wrote except for money. So, I write out of folly. I write out of ignorance, to find out what I think. I write out of excitement: when the big idea wasp buzzes around my head the best way to be rid of it is to pin it to the page. I write because sometimes, very, very rarely, I think I might have something worth saying. I write with an excess of hope, but no expectation of success. I write as peacock and as ostrich. I write out of fear, because if I stop the writing I might disappear. I write because I have something even more difficult to do. I write because the world keeps giving things to write about. I write because I can’t draw, paint, sing or dance.
