: John Mingay :

Entrance to Lane (1939)

Deep down amidst ill-omened shadow,
hauntingly, there is space to reflect
on what cannot be seen, can only be felt.

Plunged into being unwanting of life,
with neither rationale nor cause so clear,
just emptiness of both soul and strength.

Pitched into a bleakness of hours
that possess nothing of allure nor worth,
nothing to admit even a crack of light.

This, then, is the familiar, the revisited,
time after time, week in, week out,
as if in a secret world, perpetually taboo.

And there is only the waiting and the hiding,
with the recollection of each previous passage
as a signpost pointing towards lane’s end.

There is only this to be done, simply time
taken to heal, wordlessly travelling onwards
while the unseen corpse remains where it fell.

Thorn Head (1946)

your world has gone missing
replaced by thorns
and an empty frame

the oceans you swam
scattered
to fill the sky

and amidst it all
a mocking crow
ever-aware of the doubt
that harries you now
in your every move

only the sun
half-hidden
offers a shard of hope

Palm Palisade (1947)

lips
that say
welcome

an oasis
of compassion

protection
from a hostile
world

barbed
against the sun
the same

where everything
becomes possible

and never a dream
is left
to decay

Standing Form (1952)

in another world
carved into timber flesh
a narrative unfolds
vaguely at first

a past being laid to rest

an angel ascending

tablets of stone fissured

the bitten hand that fed
merges into landscapes
undulating
open
true

The Origins of the Land (1952)

I am dead-in-the-night
not even born
hacked from grey granite womb

your air graces the frame

above us
shelves strain with red herring
none showing signs

of direction

of this
there is always more
like dividing cells

cancered

cancelled our love
on a matter of principle
of trust

but there again really no change

Turning Form (1948)

Bridging places we have never been,
a distortion of truths
twists in burlesque arabesques,
feathered and furrowed,
so far from home.

The sallow sky above
is as jaundiced as belief,
as jaded as the ambition to continue,
no matter whether stark metaphor
for the need to change.

An unsmotherably recurring impulse
dances daily, hourly, across
the distant horizon
as though to keep us in our place,
as though to shackle with fear.

Then, finally, you are gone
and I am left only with an outlook
that promises nothing more
than a cycle of clouds,
from dark to darker to darker still.

* all titles taken from Graham Sutherland paintings


johnmingay
Entrance to Lane (1939) Deep down amidst ill-omened shadow, hauntingly, there is space to reflect on what cannot be seen, can only be felt. Plunged into being unwanting of life, with neither rationale nor cause so clear, just emptiness of both soul and strength. Pitched into a bleakness of hours that possess nothing of allure nor worth, nothing to admit even a crack of light. This, then, is the familiar, the revisited, time after time, week in, week out, as if in a secret world, perpetually taboo. And there is only the waiting and the hiding, with the recollection of each previous passage as a signpost pointing towards lane’s end. There is only this to be done, simply time taken to heal, wordlessly travelling onwards while the unseen corpse remains where it fell. Thorn Head (1946) your world has gone missing replaced by thorns and an empty frame the oceans you swam scattered to fill the sky and amidst it all a mocking crow ever-aware of the doubt that harries you now in your every move only the sun half-hidden offers a shard of hope Palm Palisade (1947) lips that say welcome an oasis of compassion protection from a hostile world barbed against the sun the same where everything becomes possible and never a dream is left to decay Standing Form (1952) in another world carved into timber flesh a narrative unfolds vaguely at first a past being laid to rest an angel ascending tablets of stone fissured the bitten hand that fed merges into landscapes undulating open true The Origins of the Land (1952) I am dead-in-the-night not even born hacked from grey granite womb your air graces the frame above us shelves strain with red herring none showing signs of direction of this there is always more like dividing cells cancered cancelled our love on a matter of principle of trust but there again really no change Turning Form (1948) Bridging places we have never been, a distortion of truths twists in burlesque arabesques, feathered and furrowed, so far from home. The sallow sky above is as jaundiced as belief, as jaded as the ambition to continue, no matter whether stark metaphor for the need to change. An unsmotherably recurring impulse dances daily, hourly, across the distant horizon as though to keep us in our place, as though to shackle with fear. Then, finally, you are gone and I am left only with an outlook that promises nothing more than a cycle of clouds, from dark to darker to darker still. * all titles taken from Graham Sutherland paintings
johnmingay has been managing editor of internationally acclaimed Raunchland Publications, since 1984 and now, following several years as Writer-in-Residence and Writer-in-the-Community in Darlington, lives in Scotland, working as a psychotherapist specialising in scriptotherapy. In addition, he was editor of 3x4 magazine, 1989-95, and the Lung Gom Press, 1995-97, and has been widely published in literary magazines, anthologies, collaborative projects and in over forty individual collections.