In this series, Golden Colloquy, each painting illustrates a poem and portrays a dialogue with the subconscious. These dialogues are accessed through altered states of consciousness, such as lucid dreaming or astral projection. The titles are derived from lines within the poems. Each painting measures 30 x 30 cm and is created using oil on board.
She spoke with fingers unwound
A fable melted in my hand
as I grasped within the cavern of my throat,
unlocking like a tear.
She spoke with fingers unwound,
bending oceanic trees in her fibrous refrain.
Listening intently, willing to succumb,
searching for mother transmogrified, I wander.
My nose buried behind a dog’s ear,
racing through thorns and burs,
entangled in childhood, meadow-scented.
Close the gate; the gate is closed.
Breathe.
My rooms are dusty
Suspended between washing lines swinging, sleeping, singing.
The neighbours have turned their house into a shop;
they see me from their makeshift cash register,
tourniquet— the mood flow stifled.
I unwind myself from the lines, ankles swelling,
and feel the garden envelop me.
My rooms are dusty.
Bits of old brown parcel tape hide beneath my bed.
I scoop up armfuls of detritus— layers of musty sediment,
intending to hoover later.
But for now, the bus driver sticks out his tongue and licks my face,
fashioning a mask for the other children.
I feel violet, blue. How did I let this happen?
Vessel
We are in the small hours, stirring.
Avian troops muster for melodic hustle-bustle
beneath the decrepit pergola at my window.
Eyes weary,
prickling sockets spark along the hacker's pathways,
igniting guide lights in the dark.
I ask for help. I’m taken to my room.
My own hand appears before me;
soon I am flowing into another realm.
Conveyed by women—my ladies—
each one shows me what I need to know.
I’m taken to my room, yet it is not my room.
I see my hand reach out, yet it is not my hand.
I linger between worlds,
on the threshold of another sphere.
I flicker there: asleep, but not asleep.
Here, I am transported.
A little girl with copper curls close by my side— she calls me Vanessa;
another calls me Vera.
I am a multitude.
Their names elude me, save for one: Jaynington Enterprises.
Half a dozen ladies gather, fey, and each knows me by a sobriquet.
Each holds a slip of paper: a receipt, an acceptance,
white sheets placed before me.
I make no sense of them.
Ciphers, glyphs— it is your name,
etched on many of these dream chits.
They want me to understand why you still haunt my dreams.
Many times I have asked: why do you frequent me?
On these vouchers, they inscribe: for the love of man.
Involuntary tears fall as I realise— for the love of man.
I flicker there: asleep, but not asleep.
I am presence cleaving to hematite, softly breathing,
believing what is written— for the love of man.
I am Vanessa. I am Vera. I am vessel.
Seed sower: implanting a memory
Clothes pegs, tea towels; a broken doorbell clicks—
Plastic components compress beneath a puzzled, persistent finger.
My ears, finely tuned to incoming guests,
spied this one at a distance through the nets.
From afar, my recall stretches thin,
a warped spider web I trace with care.
Backward through gossamer threads,
a fretwork of timelines and nebulous neural strands,
like shards of a dismantled sun scattering fractured light.
Ding-dong anticipated—I peer through rippled glass and unfasten the door.
A stranger appears, unknowable terrain,
intentions obscured beyond clothes pegs and tea towels: arcane.
An intriguing seed sower, implanting a memory;
a weary traveler seeking water.
We invited her then, as I invite her now, into this diorama of echoes,
disposed to receive her second sight, fully grown.
Home is a hearth, discovered in sleep,
Nestled in the eaves of the subconscious deep.
Home is kindled in the great unknown,
Where gentle flames eternally are sown.
Home is a chimney, forgotten, repressed,
Where the embers of longing lie suppressed.
Home is a fire that cannot be quelled,
It tricks the eye, but the heart is compelled.
Home cradles the spark, its guiding flame,
A sacred refuge from life's fierce claim.
We set sail
We set sail on undulating waters. Our momentum is interrupted. Teetering on a frozen crest of waves, with buckling knees, a freeze chases us, arresting our expedition.
Ice crystal fingers punch through the cabin, ripping the roof away. We are all surprised by the vitality of this icicle fiend and wonder how we will thaw. We wonder what caused Winter to pursue us like a hunter. Our questions crystallise in the glacial sky, and we disembark, perplexed.
The voluminous night flows dense; I press a finger through its heavy expanse, feeling particles drag. Winding circumspectly, my body follows, executing a somersault crafted in thick air. "This is how it is done," I declare to the upturned faces below. I’m getting the hang of it now— stooping like a peregrine, I tear a strip from the sky, revealing a new world.
I reforge a tuppence in the afterglow, shaping delicate perpendicular shards: a copper city built on a bronze substratum, a maquette minted in the mind’s eye. Some aspects are shutting down; I’ve decommissioned them, withdrawing resources from certain quarters to address core needs once built on sands.
Winter’s breath is upon me in this metaphysical vacuum. I will make my fire here.
Our colloquy
While I perceived you, corporeal—
A stranger known in luminous gaze—
Your presence, strikingly surreal,
Dissolved into my auric haze.
When my dreaming mind unfolds,
You appear with dulcimer chimes.
Our colloquy, like a magnet, holds
Worlds apart yet unified.
I saw the feathered hunters race
Towards the sun in winged rapport.
I hid my fear beneath a carapace
Until I found the verve to talk.
I listened with a heart enshrined
To subtle artefacts disclosed,
And uttered naught, yet spoke sublime
Within the spire of my soul.
