The Poetry Of.
George Anderson.......................................
Fantail
The fantail perches
on the thin
wire
of the fence
chirping
angling
north
north-east
his long brown & white tail
spinning
twitching
like a baton. And then-
he lifts off
flitting in the cold morning
air looping
& hovering
& chasing
& briefly
touching a mate
in mid-air
within my arm's
length.
Skitting off-
he returns
instantly to sit
on the cow
paddock wire
before me-
only
to fling himself outwards
in a wild loop
skimming the
ground.
And as I watch the fantail
I think about how free & he is
& how detached
I have become.
Wings
He uses any material he can find in the area
he is visiting. To shape his work he chisels &
pounds the stone to bring out its natural light,
to expose the shadows & textures lurking within
Striving to get to the essence, to the thing inside
he transforms the material, to make it something
it wasn't before. He enters new territory, reaching
beyond the fused inverted images in his retina
Take his proposed four metre high sandstone sculpture
of a fly, plucked from inside a dream, its delicate wings
are be shaped by a 400hp air compression hammer- its
glittering eyes like juggling diamonds in his imagination
resurrection
1
a scorched thorned pod lies buried beneath a blackened ridge of ash
2
once an idea/ a question mark of a tree- now bristling in a seething mass of greenness
3
the narrow, leathery silver-grey leaves implode with large clusters of crowded red buds mottled with irregular yellow stamens
4
the plumes of approaching, exploding flames tumble down into the valley, leaping in wild swooping bounds across the canopy,
igniting crowns in a fierce, unstoppably mad fireball
