Friday, January 31, 2014

Shamanic Paintings, Drawings & Illustrations by Bruce Rimell

by Bruce Rimell

She is in My Blood
by Bruce Rimell

Form Land Seek
by Bruce Rimell

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Bruce Rimell is a visionary artist based in Leeds-Bradford in the UK whose vibrant work springs from the alchemy of his own personal visions, sensations of archaeological or mythological prehistories, and migraine experiences since childhood. Rendered in a vivid style which as much recalls Aboriginal textures, Mayan codices and Minoan frescoes as it does graffiti art, psychedelic experience and surrealist forms, his art occupies a space somewhere between painting, drawing and illustration, and a time somewhere between the ancestral past and the shamanic future.

The central focus of his practice is to bring those very ancient archetypes – whether Palaeolithic, Neolithic or sometimes the High Civilisations of the Bronze Age – into the modern field of experience, variously inviting or challenging the viewer to look underneath the contextual aspects of contemporary art and modern experience to view the universalities and disquieting visionary sensations common to all human cultures past and present, and which we have inherited from our ancestors.

He aims to speak to those aspects of us which operate without words – dreams, magic, psychedelic experiences, animistic songlines and other non-rational modes of experience feature strongly – whilst abstract commentaries and critical positions are abandoned in a quest to seek and express direct communion with the deepest essences of the living and sacred human being: Come and see, and look within. What will you find?

Sunday, January 19, 2014

Morning Star ~ Poems by Danna Hobart


Born so beautifully flawed, 
like crackleware 
before your first breath; 
you hit the wall on that birth day. 

Eyes like marbles baked and chilled
saw the world with wonder,
but mother greeted you --
like a cat with her back arched. 

Encircled with rules --
like antique bottles 
not to be broken -- 
you cringe at the sound of their clinking,  
and any movement or growth topples them.

Try to climb 
over broken and splintered glass
reaching out 
not knowing what you’re reaching for
your chin dips and suspicious eyes follow you. 

Hungry for kindness, 
you follow anybody who 
scratches behind your ears,
only to be kicked aside   
as the door slams. 

Tomorrow is uncertain 
as a Vegas card game;
do you hold at 17? 
Or cross your fingers 
and take another card?


It was the perfect night
for a ride in your old, dented-up Chevy,  
until you found a train to race. 
Sound of its whistle 
blew straight through me 
as you drove between the crossing gates.

My heart quivered 
like the speedometer needle
and your lips were hotter 
than your 454 manifold. 

The city seems lonely 
looking down from Bear Hill at night.
You told me all your fast ambitions 
while drinking a fifth of Jack.
I watched the signal at Cross and Maine 

turn from red to green, 
and back to red,
avoiding your eyes,
but the moonlight was powdered sugar on my skin
and you were determined to taste it.  

Not even the darkness was perfect.
I opened my eyes to the
red neon VACANCY sign 
flashing across my face, 
while you squeezed my hips and groaned. 

Morning sun melted between us 
I watched your eyes 
in reckless R.E.M. and knew 
I’d never share your dreams.

Summer Nights 

A poem bubbles in me,
peroxide on an open wound;
I smother in the humidity
of summer dreams gone limp 
as my sun-bleached hair.

Childhood summers melt together
like crayons left in the yard.

When I was eleven,
summer nights were hide-n-seek
and sneaking into the garage
with a boy four years older than me.

The warmth of his hands
was like the first taste of
grapefruit sprinkled with sugar
but then it all goes sour.

Summer tears burn
worse than bare feet
on hot asphalt.

Now the nights are sticky
too sticky even to fuck,
so we lie, nude
barely touching
aching for relief.

Longing vibrates from deep inside;
the reedy resonance of a Native flute.
There is beauty in desire,
and in reaching for each other
in tepid minutes before sunrise.

On the front porch
cigarette smoke curls.
June Bugs cling to the screen door
and hiss when it slams.
They remind us how to laugh,
and Perseid showers us with new dreams.

Spider Silk 

I watched a spider drink a raindrop
his tan body
translucent on my windshield.  
I wondered
how many drops would it take
to slake my own thirst. 

I watched that spider without fear 
through the laminated glass between us- 
still, I jumped
as he rappelled with the wind 
leaving a thread of spider silk behind, 
and I wondered
Would the spider have flinched 
had it been me who
made the unexpected move? 

Spiders don't know of arachnophobia 
as they spin their webs
if they don't catch a fly, they will die, 
if they catch a fly, they will still 
and I spin  
thinking my movements matter. 
In a hundred years 
what will be left?

Swaddling the Moon

The wind was excitement and cooked oats.
Expectation was a big, red circle
on the calendar. 

Dreams were Crayolas 
scattered on the rug,
sleepless nights in a rocking chair, 
lullabies and college tuitions. 

Cramped fingers 
ran along fairy-tale edges, 
for nine short weeks, 
unable to pinch its chubby cheeks. 

To dilating eyes 
the sky was watered down,
but I could see vultures circling. 
I screamed, threw stones,
begged them to leave,
but the horizon was crumpled tissue,

The moon emerged
smaller than a silver dollar 
with no footprints 
or photographs. 

We cradled it in mournful hands 
all sad words 
smeared in tears,
and we never knew 
whether to swaddle it 
in pink or blue.

About the Author:
Danna Hobart lives in California where she is a full-time mother and writer and perpetual student. Her poetry has been published online and in print in magazines such as Events Quarterly, Problem Child, Cadenza, and Zygote in my Coffee. She has also been published the anthologies: The Dream Book of Dreams, Feeling is First, and Ink Angels. Her first novel, Morning Star is an autobiography about her journey through postpartum depression. It was published in 2006 by Whiskey Creek Press. She is currently working on her grandmother's biography. It is a tale of tragedy and romance, sprinkled with celebrities and has WW2 as a backdrop.