, , , , , ,

Friends admire

the new painting

hanging a little cramped

above my corner desk


then fall back

on my bed with laughter

in an erruption

of unswallowed tea,


‘Are you insane?’

It’s not a question.

Three months rent.

It only lives


in my bedroom

because I have no lounge

or such

to call my own


It’s slightly akward

to be honest

this intimacy

for I know enough


of creativity to recognise

the artist has parted

with nothing less

than a tangible extraction of his soul


for a mere ninety days

of roof over my head,

and so in playful moments

I ask my new acquisition


if it too might like

a cup of tea

(which is both foolish

and ironic if you saw it)


for I know its aliveness

is not so crudely sated

and so I sing

to it sometimes


and deceive myself

into believing

I see the paint sparkle

just a hint brighter


while I’ve turned siren

and my song

calls the waves

boldly towards me


from a sea that’s wet

only beyond the canvas



This poem was inspired by a brief visit to http://www.castlegalleries.com/ in Exeter, where I’ve come for some cultural immersion and get away from it all day offness. Hope 2016 has begun well for you all –




Harula x


P.S. And no, I haven’t yet bought a precious painting, but you might be able to tell I kind of like the idea…