My diary pages from England
When working on my figures and portraits, I try to get down to the naked soul. In a similar way, I want these diary pages to say something about the whole business of creating a work of art.
Today, while glancing through my copy of Byron’s love poems, I found that years ago I had marked a page with a copy of a poem by James Kirkup. It is titled The Poet but the sentiments could equally apply to all who toil upon the forge of art.
Each instant of his life, a task, he never rests,
And works most when he appears to be doing nothing.
The least of it is putting down the words,
What usually remains unwritten and unspoken,
And would so often be better left
Unsaid, for it is really the unspeakable
That he must try to give an ordinary tongue to.
And if, by art and accident,
He utters the unutterable, then
It must appear as natural as breath,
Yet be an inspiration. And he must go,
The lonelier for his unwanted miracle,
His singular way, a gentle lunatic at large
In the societies of cross and reasonable men.
How do I find a picture to illustrate today’s entry? Equally by chance, I stumbled across a faded black and white photograph taken in the UK
Although I have always known of James Kikup, this poem is new to me, so thank you for bringing to my attention. I may have to add it to my ‘commonplace book’. Your photograph, illustrates it beautifully.
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