Of all things possessory
a tail can be a useful accessory.
It’s handy for swishing flies off my coat,
and for keeping me in rough seas afloat.
Although, hang on, that would be if I were a horse,
or a beaver. So what is the source
of this thing about me having a tail?
I’ve racked my brains to no avail.
It gets stuck in doors.
It drags mud along clean floors.
It gets stepped on.
It gets pulled by the occasional moron.
It gets up my nose when I’m trying to sleep.
It takes a lot of faffy upkeep.
This session applies equally to drawing as to painting so the examples will be in colour.
There are any number of ‘rules’ on this subject — I’m just going to stick with the idea that odds are better than evens. That is, that it’s better to think in thirds than halves; better to think of 1, 3, 5 than 2, 4 etc.
This painting (above) is pleasant enough but it’s nothing special. It’s too even. The horizon line is halfway down the page. …
This seagull was outside my window in a hotel in Fishguard (South West Wales) where I was staying to teach a drawing and painting course.
I knew him by repute. He terrorises the guests to the extent that, despite it being sweltering I dared not open my window because he’s quite likely to fly in, snatch anything I might be trying to stuff down my neck, and fly out again. It’s terrifying!
The way he’s adapted to the human invasion of his space, though, means that I’d rather keep my window closed in a heatwave than have him driven off.
The fern (above) has long grown in one of the pots I have outside the front of my house. These colours usually indicate autumn to us, but this fern has it the other way around, and they indicate new growth with those wonderful russet hues.
There once was a cat
who knitted things, and wore a hat.
Wherever she wandered
why corpses always appeared.
It was very weird,
the way that happened.
People dropped like flies
exhibiting their demise
in every way —
baked in clay,
beheaded by a stray
UFO, squished by falling rocks,
injected with smallpox,
asphyxiated in lime jelly,
shot by cannon into a whale’s belly.
if anyone could unclog
a mystery —
it was Miss Marple-mogg.
With a little history
she could clear the fog,
just like Agatha Christie. …
He loved going so fast
that everything went by in a blur.
It was such a blast
to feel the wind race through his fur.
Speeding along was a thrill,
and always to win
with never a spill
produced such a big grin!
He was living the life of dreams,
and the puppyish screams
of delight from the young bitches
was better than marrow-bone riches.
He was a hero in his own time
and all the puppers he’d left behind
envied his rapid sporting-climb
and his success-refined mind.
He’d strut to the slopes, his ears erect
knowing he’d the right to…