Artist Signature: a poem for poets day

NPD-logo-red-amber-landscapeHello everyone!

Seeing as National Poetry Day fell within World Space Week this year on the subject of Light, it seemed appropriate to celebrate the collision of Arts and Sciences with a poem this month! It also happens to be Poet’s Day on Friday (tongue in cheek of course ;) ) but there’s always a good excuse for reading and writing poetry!



Artist Signature

by Susan Grey, Artistic Director at Stars or Mars Theatre

She traced co-ordinates of space and time

Through the contours of the text

Weathered by the persistent drag of entropy/ Phrasings through verse obtained from the tracings of stars/parsing time and space

To the very co-ordinates of being.

Parsing the nature of “days”, the positioning of the Earth from A to B, the heliocentric spin  

And the arms-length embrace within the solar system.


Representation as a segmentation of our sense data,

Through results of Science and Art,

Discoveries that spawn ownership to be nourished,

Relinquished, then shared,

Trinkets crafted, drafted and bared within a specific slice of space-time

Shaped and weathered by the acts of hindsight

We represented parts of ourselves

Reflected in others, resurfaced from our projections in the inflections

Under the covers of voices and angles of gestures

Tangles of senses rearranged under the guise of human tenses.

If I could, I would erase the connections

Sever the metaphors, make invisible the simile

And distil the moments, the emotional time signatures, 

Fragments shining through as wholes.

But all I can do is to relate to you

In words that elicit connections, right?

Crackling of leaves, creeping under rubbed soles

Detected by ears, the soft scents of mint tugging at senses

The smoothness of leaves, yielding its toughness under the cuddle

Of corpuscle,

The jagged gasps of cold air whipping us into alertness

To the cries of the birds wheeling overhead.

In this room I leave these feelings as wavelengths, frequencies

Hoping these transparencies are realised in the

Minds of others.

It wasn’t all about the end product

Simply a conduit

A recruit that fulfilled the needs of its maker and those around them,

Points on a graph, each star of equal importance as part and whole,

One that continually shifted as time and life passed

From pigments to printing press to the virtual caress of pixels/

Our art evolved out of the simple act

Of leaving marks/harkening to our pasts/sculpting out our spaces so that our 

Hangouts become corners 

In someone else’s frame

So that our apertures widen and grow/seeding the route that flows through

Our field of vision/

Increasing our mission statements beyond mere characters

That brushstrokes enable us to enlarge our lens,

Scoping to the soundscapes of laughter, cries, words of the wise

And the frivolous, the privileges and

The punishments of our time to reminisce upon.

Memories jangle like loose change at the bottom of my pockets


Heavier, weighted down in the rounds of fabric

Keep getting stuck in mounds under my nails,

Clamping, cramping,

Hooked to soft pads, worked out in fingers.

My memory’s like elastic that’s wearing down,

That satisfying sound of its fast return yet to be found.

All it does now is stretch round to far flung corners of my existence

A universe long swept over.

My early birthdays, fights in the rain, loss and love that comes one after the other,

(Sometimes a combo)

And something tells me if these are pieces to work together

Or will the edges be too jagged, jaded,

Masqueraded within masquerade, no truth for telling.

Our art is selection/ an act of filtration

Marksmen where our crosshair paints areas of fragmentation

That expands our horizons

Backwards engineering our experiences

That we believed in

Working out the entanglement of our feeling from expectation of each event

And the extent of our limitations.

We wondered how our voices would carry


Empty Rooms

The wombs of future civilisations

Vocalisations of our digitalised cries upon electric winds

Hoping our feelings would translate

Recreated and rehearsed in the minds of others

(how would they think)

Of species from past and future

Spun like flaxen hands winding round,

Helterskeltering strands of hairs weaving

Cascading from the sky.


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