Saturday, 20 September 2014

Inspiration: Inhalation > Instillation > Expiration > Exhilaration...

Inspiration, a drawing of breath, a divine influence - necessary precursor to many artistic endeavours: for instance, reciting a poem, playing a wind-instrument, blowing glass.....

My poem today is inspired by the work of a very talented Finn, Oiva Toikka, a consummate artist in glass. He was appointed in1963 as lead designer at the Nuutajarvi Glassworks [Finland's oldest glassworks, founded in 1793]. To begin with he designed ranges of elegant, everyday glassware and that portfolio alone would have guaranteed him a lasting reputation. Toikka however, had a vision. A keen ornithologist, he yearned to replicate in glass the beauty of the world of birds...and so in 1979 he began to design the range of stunningly beautiful hand-blown glass birds that have become collectors' items and given him international status as a glass artist. He still designs glass birds today, but his designs - which all use only locally-sourced materials - are now hand-blown by a dedicated team of his skilled disciples. I'm fortunate to have a couple of his creations and they are wonderful artefacts, things of beauty that truly are a joy to behold and be held.

This 'recipe' of a poem was written sitting at my Dell Inspiron....

Birds Of Fire
Step one:
Sand, soda, lime and fire,
elements melt in the kiln -
radiant heart of the hot shop -
coalesce with a burning desire
to create a red-hot glass mass.

Step two:
A skilled hand grabs a pipe,
lifts a gather of the molten glow
and sets to work -
twist, twirl, blow
all in a controlled flow -
a small miracle is taking place,
the birth of another bird of fire.

Step three:
Step back,
let it cool,
stand and admire...
out of sight!
Smooth form, vibrant colours,
art embellishing nature,
a perfect poem in glass and light.

Thanks for reading - have a good week, S ;-)


Christo said...

"...a gather of the moltren glow..." and so many other vivid images make this a true delight, Steve.

I'd forgotten that there was a former garage used as a glass workshop on Buchanan Street (long vanished) which entranced me as a child - magic in urban decay as the craftsman was delighted to interest children in his art.

In general I love poems which escape the clich├ęs of "Oh, woe is me..." and embark on a long wail of some ill-treatment, and instead transport us to where "something is happening".

Thank you.

And this afternoon by 4.45 pm, could it possible be Blackpool 2 but Brighton 0 ?