It’s a
beautiful spring day here in sunny Whitstable, Kent. Since I had a sports-related foot operation
three days ago, I appreciate the sunlight shining through my window even more
than I did before going into hospital.
I'm desperate to
get back to work on my new book which is mostly set in Vienna where I lived for
a year. After returning there earlier this year in April, I found it as magical
as I did when I lived there. I miss it, in spite of the extreme cold in the
winter and intense heat in the summer. I’m sure that many of you are used to
far hotter and colder temperatures than I am, but I feel I’m melting if the
temperature climbs above 28 Celsius.
Here is one
of the poems I wrote when I was living there. I find Schiele’s paintings disturbing, but they
really make you think.
EGON SCHIELE’S SELF PORTRAIT
Behind
your thoughts and feeling, my brother stands a mighty master, an unknown sage.
His name is Self.’ Nietzsche.
The image in
the mirror is not you,
but all the
people inside you. Your portraits
are a quest
to find out how many you are:
Christ, Clown, Hero, Victim?
Narcissus in
Vienna without
a flower,
you exhibit
yourself to the future in
distorted
mirrors: electrified hair and
grotesque features
drag Dorian into your life.
Not for you
the cover of Klimt’s ornateness,
but exposure
in all its flawed forms.
You
monochrome your background
with
energetic brush strokes, then place
your nude
body on top; angled for attention;
coloured
with movement:
creating a
world in your own image.
