Fog and Autumn, Poems and Photos

 

Treasure

The trees are poorer for their gold is gone.

Spilled their jewels.

Rich are the creatures who thrive in it,

grow from its colour.

Things inside us

I see things that are inside us,

an old anatomy model, a lung, a liver,

hundreds of miles of capillaries,

nerve endings screaming in their cold nakedness.

Metamorphoses

I caught the silver birches dancing in the fog.

They stopped still.

Hoping I hadn’t noticed.

They are not vengeful.

I am not Actaeon.

Silk

A garrotte of spider silk,

drapes the brambles,

the barbed metal,

burdened with tears,

the weaver waits,

for light.

Shroud

I once read that dying trees,

burst into vibrant green,

a last defiance.

It’s not a dress,

it’s a shroud.

The Stare

Caught in a Gorgon’s stare and

petrified.

 

Mud

The fog paints away

the familiar

All I have is

ditches in the field

turned earth

clay

mud

I’m walking inside

a teardrop.

I can touch

my horizon.

Sun

The sun’s breaking through,

The secret world

will be gone soon

Words and photos © Mel Melis

Reiko Watanabe, Hiroshima

 

Tomorrow is the anniversary of the nuclear bomb falling on Hiroshima. It’s often the story of the individual which hits home when contemplating the horrors of war and the associated loss of life. In Reiko Watanabe’s case, it’s her lack of a story, the hole left, the emptiness of a future taken from her, the life she could have led, which really hit home for me. She was only 15 when the bomb dropped, helping with fire prevention work with her fellow students. She might be alive today, a grandmother, or great grandmother. We can only imagine the dreams and ambitions she concocted in her youth. The war raged around her, but she had a future.

Her body was never found, she was working by a mud wall, and later, her lunch box was discovered, melted, but still distinguishable and full of the rice and peas her mother had prepared for her that morning. It was all carbonised of course, but it was a tiny glimpse to show she was loved. And missed.

The photo below is by Hiromi Tsuchida, it is Reiko’s lunchbox. I first saw this photo in an exhibition at the Tate Modern, Conflict, Time, Photography and I was both chilled to the core at the power of the weapons we’ve made to destroy each other and moved by the humanity of the portrait of this last memento of a young girl’s life.

I wrote these words for her.

 

Reiko

By the low wall, Reiko diligently performed the fire drill

she briefly saw the white light, In an eerie silence,

Before it blinded her,

moments later the force, hit her,

Vapourised her, leaving the girl,

In the the spring of her youth,

Just a memory to those who loved her,

 

Her future dreams, caught in the shock wave,

scattered, as single words,

Sewn seeds, in the poisoned fields,

The wall she worked by, it fell,

so that even her shadow,

was lost,

 

But her lunch box,

Buckled by the heat, survived,

A memento, a tribute to the love,

of her proud mother, who sent her out,

with precious rice and peas,

to help.

 

Poem © Mel Melis (photograph by Hiromi Tsuchida)

Dusk and Dawn –June 2012, “I hear those voices that will not be drowned”

 

Dusk

After the rains, the sun shone,

A jewel of an evening

where long shadows caressed the beach,

And touched the churning sea,

The mottled sand, built in tiny peaks,

Amongst the dunes, unsullied by feet,

I didn’t know you’d gone,

They were calling me, to tell me,

But I was oblivious,

I’m glad, because I saw beauty,

And now when I remember that day,

I face the sea, the sun at my back,

I see a glint of light on the scallop,

I listen to the timeless pulse,

Of the ocean, the cry of birds,

The wind driving at the hardy plants,

Who tremble, like my fragile heart.

© Mel Melis (all words and photos)

Dawn

I stayed up and watched the sun rise,

over the North Sea,

I saw her face in the clouds till

the sun melted it away,

Dusk and Dawn, those funny times

neither claimed by day or night,

A time where for an instant,

the imagination snares reality.

The Old Barn

Since I’ve lived in the village, the old barn has stood, it was of indeterminate age, but definitely venerable. On a sunny crisp day in March, our friends from New Zealand visited, this is probably the last ever photo of the old barn. The next day when I walked to work through the moors I saw its remains burning in a pyre.

We saw it yesterday, just a fragile frame of wood,
ivy caressed,
the fragile skeleton on the edge of the moor,
the men came, and without ceremony,
dismembered it,
piled its bones and set it on fire,
yellow flames licking at the edge of memories,
ashes rising in the air,
history atomised

Words by Mel Melis, All photos by Donna Grewal ©

PJ Harvey, Recording in Progress, Somerset House, 5th February 2015

 

After a lengthy morning at the Russian Consulate, submitting my business visa request, I decided to take an early lunch and make the relatively short walk through the sleet to Somerset House, to see if there were any returns of the sold out run for PJ Harvey’s Recording in Progress.

(photocredit © Seamus Murphy)

I didn’t hold much hope, they seemed to be the hottest tickets in town, more an interactive art installation than a gig as such.

© photocredit – Me! (Mel Melis)

It’s totally pot luck, the artists are working, the glass is one way, they cannot see you, they are recording their new album, not putting on a show for you, you might get to hear polished songs, you might just get some discussion, tuning of instruments, jamming, drinking of coffee. So when I asked the security guard in hope, his eyebrow raised itself and he announced with a giant grin. “I think this is your lucky day!” he then led me to a side room in Somerset House’s New Wing, introduced me to another staff member who confirmed that yes, this was the first time they’d ever had a no show and I would be welcome to join the session in progress. I had missed the first fifteen minutes or so, but I didn’t care! The planets and stars had aligned and the gods favoured me! I was going to get to see PJ Harvey recording her new album!

He requested that I deposit any recording equipment (no photos, recording or filming - it was strictly prohibited*) for safe keeping, allowed me to hang up my coat and then led me to the lift to drop me into the stony depths of the catacombs under Somerset House where I was led into the viewing area.

A devoted huddle of acolytes, a tiny number (between 20-30) for an act who can fill massive venues, were politely gathered around the big window spaces looking into the white room, the former inland revenue staff gymnasium that constituted the recording studio in the basement of the historic Somerset House on the Strand. Like me, most of the people there were little. Perhaps our fragility delivers us to the lyrics and powerful themes of PJ Harvey’s work, perhaps I just made a massive generalisation, but I didn’t care, there was plenty of room to see! Peej herself was wearing all black, headphones on, her black hair cascading down in waves, either side of her face. She was testing her vocals on one of the new songs, which turned out to be the “The Revolving Wheel” I believe. Her long time collaborator John Parish listening intently, brow furrowed in concentration as she played the chords she wanted him to reproduce on his acoustic guitar. Flood the producer bounced energetically around the room alternately clutching a cup of coffee and a red moleskine notebook, occasionally scribbling something down, occasionally offering sage advice. “You could bring in the instruments one by one” he suggested on one such foray from his two seater sofa, a statement more than a question. “No” remarked Polly laconically, with a smile. Perhaps a polite reminder that this was her album and vision. Flood didn’t argue, he smiled back. This seemed like a team without friction, a professional but easy going atmosphere to work in. A photographer, I’m guessing Seamus Murphy who created the wonderful films accompanying PJ Harvey’s brilliant last album “Let England Shake” duelled with Flood for centre stage, taking shots of the artists. Also in the room (I think) were the drummer Kenrick Rowe and Terry Edwards, who was ready with his saxophone as well as another unidentified musician with a wondrous beard. A couple of sound engineers dipped in and out at times too. Mick Harvey was also there, sitting next to John Parish, he seemed in a quietly jovial mood, perhaps because the onus was on Parish for the next few minutes. And then some magic happened, Parish played on an acoustic guitar and Polly sang. It was beautiful. We heard the whole of “The Revolving Wheel” from the new album. At the end, I, like many other people in the audience resisted the desire to clap. I saw the two girls in front of me clasp each others hands more tightly. I saw other people smiling in loving appreciation, me too.

The band then seemed to be building up to play a more complete, multi-instrument version of the song, perhaps a version which would end up on the album. The anticipation was building as they tuned up and jammed little elements of it. Mick Harvey’s guitar delivered some pounding bluesy derivatives of the main chord structures but unfortunately our time was up. We were asked to leave the viewing area.

I got perhaps twenty-five minutes of the forty-five minute allocation and I was chuffed to bits. I feel fortunate to have struck lucky. And I can’t wait for the new album. I walked away, the sleet had stopped, the sun was threatening to show its face and I returned to work a happy guy! Best lunchbreak ever!

Big thanks to the very friendly and accommodating staff at Somerset House.

*Fear not! Although recording was prohibited, I did make an “artist’s impression” from memory. Up to my usual excellent standard as usual I’m sure you’ll agree :). I’m not sure there were any big tape reels whirring away, seeing as we are now in the digital age… I think I kind of merged it with an episode of Hawaii-Five-O in one of the police computer rooms. But it kind of works right?

©Mel Melis (not that anyone would steal this….!)

Winter Walk at Dusk

Flitton and Flitwick moor, today. (all photos © Mel Melis)

 

The peat bog caresses,

with sticky tarred fingers,

exploring the flesh,

and drinking the droplets,

of hot breath falling,

tasting,

understanding the strangers,

the night waking,

as the day sinks in fading red,

 

life stands still,

bar one last laugh,

from the woodpecker,

the birds are silent,

invisible, cold hardened,

watching the mottled clouds,

and listening

as the moor starts to converse,

quietly at first,

 

the river swelled, giggling,

creaking trees sway,

straight backed callow alders,

golden haired willows,

cowed and bashful,

squat crab apples,

and stern oaks,

dark and bold,

against the sunset.

 

Joan Fontcuberta, Science Museum. What to see.

 

This exhibition at the Science Museum looks great, can't wait to visit.

Joan Fontcuberta is a photographer artist who holds up a mirror to the news and our bombardment of information with a playful but serious series of works.

When you read a news article or look at a picture or photograph, which may or may not have a "helpful" caption... do you take it at face value? Do you question its integrity? Do you research and challenge the validity of the message it conveys? Do you make up your own mind? We've all been duped by someone, even by people in supposed authority. The world is becoming a place where news and information is readily available, however it's also readily dumbed down or perverted to suit a cause. I don't trust anything I read, especially knee jerk shares of sensationalist rubbish.

A summary of Fontcuberta’s projects and brilliantly believable hoaxes can be found in this guardian article.

But, what to believe? To me the internet is about pictures of cats. I only trust pictures of cats. I believe in cats.

The Miracle of Dolphin Surfing, 2002

Bletchley Park’s Vintage Toys

Bletchley Park is a wonderful place, the home of the code breakers and now rightly being given the funding it deserves to renovate and improve. On the same site, the National Museum of Computing, full of nostalgia and vintage functioning computers and equipment, including a magnificent rebuild of Colossus.

But, one potentially overlooked exhibit is the wonderfully nostalgic Toy museum. There are an abundance of toys and games (e.g. original meccano), clothing and ornaments, wartime propaganda and toys, austerely made - “Make and Mend”.

What really caught my eye was the dolls.

There was something haunted about them, sometimes they were sinister. Maybe the decades without the love of a child has slowly emptied them. Perhaps a hug will make them glow again.

Decide for yourself, a selection of photos I took with my iphone. (all photos © Mel Melis – all exhibits hosted at Bletchley Park – reproduced without seeking financial gain)

This poor doll sat staring from her pram, looking up into space. She never cries.

Mamma bear’s gonna mess you up.

They’re waiting, they’re watching in the cabinet.

Strange, none of them seemed to be smiling.

And when they do smile, it’s hiding some terrible tragedy. I imagined this clown was visiting the grave of his wife.

Did she chew those bear ears off? Is she still hungry? The bears have been injected with a paralysis venom. She can take her time to consume them.

Scary. Atomic Kitten 1940.

This little lad has seen terrible things. I hope that’s not a garrotte.

An angry gnome (or an Amish farmer forced to wear tartan). Something simmers behind those eyes.

Devil soup

Just faces. Peeled off faces. No biggie.

This embryo terrified me.

Needle toothed golly, hung out to dry.

She made me want to cry!

The furious death stare.

A fragile girl. Fractured.

This made me laugh, he’s a bloody lipped vampire yokel

Flaking away

 

* – In all seriousness this is a lovingly preserved collection, the slow bite of time adds to the poignancy of any visit. Go! I implore you! Go to Bletchley Park! You wont regret it.