Origins are important. They are what the important words are about. Place names. The names of the rivers are older than the towns. In folk music, it is the older, bottomless ballads that draw and haunt you. The Elfin Knight, Lord Randall, Lord Bateman, The Jew’s Garden, ballads of fairy lore like Tam Lyn… That Bob Dylan quote from the 60s: “There’s nobody that’s going to kill traditional music… All these songs about roses growing out of people’s brains and lovers who are really geese and swans that turn into angels… they’re not going to die.”
Traditional songs are the free radicals in the imaginative genome, tales that twist and turn like mitochondrial DNA, pumping out a body of metaphor, allegory, symbolism and riddle. Is metaphor the oldest tool in the human pack? Older than the wheel, than flint, fusing one realm with another to create a third reality, images that change the shape of a room, all contained in the mouth, rolling over and over in the sea of the unconscious. The first human tool was to conceive.
To read it all, get yourself toINTERNATIONAL TIMES – Just follow the link
A gallery of eight paintings and eight drawings by Tim Cumming, brought up from an image trawl through north west Dorset at the end of August, 2016. Feel free to browse, left and right, through the images.
From Eggarton Hill 3
From Eggarton Hill 1
From Eggarton Hill 2
From Hardy’s Monument 1
From Hardy’s Monument 2
From The Mare and Her Colts,
From Little Bredy
From Wingreen Hill
Powerstock Sessions 1
Powerstock Sessions 2
Powerstock Sessions 3
From Danebury Ring 1
From Eggarton Hill 4
From Danebury Ring 2
This new Dorset poem, Field Study, was begun at Eggarton, and ends in that strange liminal place where observation and experience meets art and two dimensional beings called ‘pictures’.
The road follows the long slow curve of Eggarton
into Marshwood Vale, pulling the page down
around you, Golden Cap’s outline
finding its place in the slipstream of mind,
hills and valleys folding remote from view,
Bronze Age hedgerows hung with small mammals
and songbirds, rolling screens of pale light
and summer rain shifting through the vale
of delicate events, a painter’s palette
of earth tones shaking at the edge of fields of grain
ready to be brought to book, under the brush,
a twist of umber for the bull running
among us, a slow rocking motion like
a painted ship upon a painted ocean.
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