Linda Ibbotson [Ireland / UK]

 

Homage to Kinsale
 
As nights obsidian curtain lifted,
the skylark heralds the dawn chorus
in my demesne of duck egg blue.
From my balcony,
a mirage of matchstick masts
navigate the thirsty mouth of the harbour
and my skin drinks it all in.
Sometimes, when I bury myself in myself,
never quite reaching the point when thinking stops,
I unlatch the door, drink tea and savour wild berry tart
at Poets Corner,
or stroll to the Spaniard
where the swans dance to Francesca’s mandolin
and in my solitude I feel quietly content.
I look at life in black and white at The Gallery,
buy a chiffon scarf from Stone Mad –
peacock feathers with handstitched beads
and fly it like a kite on the beach.
After sundown you’ll find me in The Black Pig
sipping a glass of red,
satisfied with the feeling that finally,
I have arrived.
 

 
The Art of Seeing
 
There is a place
I sit and sketch the still shade
before the light fades
in and out of restless dusk.
There is a place
where broken shadows rendezvous with La Boheme
and Chopin’s Étude in C Minor.
Falling as arpeggios,
weightless snow weighed heavily on cold bones of Paris.
Impermanence melted white on soundless white,
audible only at the edge of silence.
 
At Place de la Concorde,
Cleopatra’s needle stitches clouds.
An easterly wind severs flesh and pleached limes,
Paper thin leaves shudder into chaos,
to bind winter wounds, the colour of blood.
 
I sketch in grey graphite, the colour of stone,
Feel the chill of a revolution in my bones.
 
At Notre Dame,
knarled gargoyles gather rain and Gregorian chants,
understand and mis-understand
the things that were, things that are
and l’ave nir, things to come.
 
It is cold at Père Lachaise as I watch the city of light tremble
and wonder, would we see more clearly in the dark?
 
(from “The Paris Sketchbook”)
 
 

Consider the Philosophy of Fine Art
 
It is the way the light and shade
stare back at you,
precise, taught.
It is the how the hand guided yours
into gilt frames,
museum glass
with no reflection,
undid what you wanted to say
like the black moon
you wanted to paint,
the window at your throat
you wanted to climb through.
 
(from “The Paris Sketchbook”)
 
 
 
Author’s Bionote:
 
*Linda Ibbotson is a poet, artist and photographer from Sheffield, England, living in Cork, Ireland and has been published internationally, including  “The Irish Times”, “Irish Examiner”, “California Quarterly”, “Limelight”, “Boyne Berries”, “Washing Windows V” and “Crannóg”. In 2021, she collaborated with Russian classical pianist and composer Arsentiy Kharitonov. In 2022, her poetry was included in an art exhibition RE=SET. (WK&Artists) Invited by Laureen Warrington. The Exhibition was held at the former spinning mill - Kammgarn, Kaiserslautern, Germany.