Arctic Cold Silent
Arctic Cold Silent
What is it about a blank page that impels a poet to write?
Pioneering Footprints in the Arctic Snow
By Jellz Fisher 081004
Vast wasteland,
flat, formless, tundra.
Cold sea of nothing.
Arctic landscape.
Free of substance.
Vacant, silent,
waiting for life
to visit, transform,
awaken its
sleeping potential.
Adventurers come
from afar seeking
homes for their words.
View the blank openness,
opportunity at hand.
Seeing hope in
building from nothing.
Creating beauty
through expression,
of hope and life,
springing eternal
from the void.
They hoist their petards
and leave their mark.
Men of Letters,
Pioneers of creation,
using natural resources…
minds, hands, pencil and paper
work in concert, unison and harmony.
Landscape no longer void,
no longer wasted.
Now filled with life.
“In the beginning was the Word…
and the Word was made flesh and
dwelt among us”
Poets facing a blank page are like artists facing a blank canvas. This reminded me of a Winston Churchill quote:
"Having bought the colours, an easel, and a canvas, the next step was to begin. But what a step to take! The palette gleamed with beads of colour; fair and white rose the canvas; the empty brush hung poised, heavy with destiny, irresolute in the air. My hand seemed arrested by a silent veto. But after all the sky on this occasion was unquestionably blue, and a pale blue at that. There could be no doubt that blue paint mixed with white should be put on the top part of the canvas. One really does not need to have had an artist's training to see that. It is a starting-point open to all. So very gingerly I mixed a little blue paint on the palette with a very small brush, and then with infinite precaution made a mark about as big as a bean upon the affronted snow-white shield. It was a challenge, a deliberate challenge; but so subdued, so halting, indeed so cataleptic, that it deserved no response. At that moment the loud approaching sound of a motor-car was heard in the drive. From this chariot stepped swiftly and lightly none other than the gifted wife of Sir John Lavery. 'Painting! But what are you hesitating about? Let me have a brush - the big one.' Splash into the turpentine, wallop into the blue and the white, frantic flourish on the palette - clean no longer - and then several large, fierce strokes and slashes of blue on the absolutely cowering canvas. Anyone could see that it could not hit back. No evil fate avenged the jaunty violence. The canvas grinned in helplessness before me. The spell was broken. The sickly inhibitions rolled away. I seized the largest brush and fell upon my victim with Berserk fury. I have never felt any awe of a canvas since."
from 'Painting as a Pastime' by Winston Churchill
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