Shiva and my ‘Songs of Realisation’

photo by Dilys Bidewell

Many of my Indian readers (and others) may enjoy my most recent collection of poems – Songs of Realisation. These three long poems celebrate what is on the earth, what is below the earth and what is above the earth. At the time I wrote them I was immersed in Wendy Doniger’s book about Shiva.

The first poem is called Epping – the name of the forest close to where I live. The second is called Chauvet – after the prehistoric cave – and the third is called Hubble – after the telescope in orbit.

Shiva, the dancer, the epitome of equilibrium, is a leitmotif that threads through all of these poems. Here is the conclusion of Epping, as the sun goes down over a lake in the forest, and Epping forest becomes one with all forests at night:


…The underground exposed, the overhead submerged;
The living interred and the buried re-appearing.
Red ripples cross the black shallows. Beyond,
There’s a darker ink to the depths. The trees are arterial webs,
Delicate as coral in the enlarging glow. Again, there’s a violent
Beating – rapid approach from a neighbouring inlet.
The neck is spear or trumpet, sounding its attack.
As this aggression is acted out, the cover thickens
Into night while embers glow within the water.
Stains of lichen deepen ashore. Distant flocks wheel tighter
Then come banking into spray. Crested and be-ruffed,
The duck drift closer to the sluice. Branches dip into reflections.
The shadow of the wood is encroaching on the sunset.
And sunset striped with silhouettes engenders fearsome tigers:
Tigers that slide through a forest from which
The night never departs. Evergreen night below the Himalayas;
Utterest dark its natural pelt; its fastnesses like dungeons;
Its pines erect; each needled bough secreting a tart odour.
Those that are felled will be contested. Mountainous
Taiga is sacred; massed against the brink of crags;
Nourishing the cordyceps and shading the azalea.
Wild legions of spruce. Chir pine, laurel and juniper,
Stands of fir and widening sweeps of cedar.
All sorts of spiky Chinese conifer. Night woods,
Where we venture in to milk it of its turpentine –
The terebinth – bleeding the trunk, or at least,
Making it ejaculate. Or do people get high on it?
Scales compacted, ripening its male or female seeds,
Cone-like consciousness expands and opens to release these.
The shape of the pineal gland resembles both the clitoris
And a cone. Located at the centre of our brain,
This primal eye belongs to our earliest Self.
It opens in his trance, with his seed about to spill
As the civet cat its spray, as the terebinth its resin.
Holly as ever stiff in the leaf, waxed to its spikes,
Indomitable, and wound about his antlers by the shaman:
He who can cure the headaches of elephants, woader
Of spirals and whorls, crescents, worms and the eyes of wolves,
With din drums to beat out the trances that dream up
The universe in the heads of foxes: many paws go dangling
From his groin. Renewing his strength in the instant
That he spends it, yet with the force of a thwarted urge,
He loiters in the pinewoods, poaches the verderers’ wives,
And loses his lingam in order that it may become
A universal promise of fertility, priapic wand and axle
Of infinity. All generation and seeding comes to a stop
Then quickens in the winter’s heart. Stretched across zero,
His drum-skin vibrates – the universe being that membrane.
So he makes a ring of stars: his drum creates creation
With the same step as his flame reduces it to ashes.
The instant passes. “Now we are gamut and fulcrum
Joined in the clinch of space and time – game of a god
With his consort. Whenever we tremble with passion
The whole foundation trembles. Terrible omens arise –
A rain of bloody bones comes down, fierce winds blow,
Comets fall, and no one reads the Vedas. Once we created
Creatures prone to immortality: creatures like ourselves,
Blazing, blazing with energy, carrying skulls and drinking Soma,
Their seed drawn up in chastity, each having thousands of eyes,
Of such terrible gaze no one could look upon them:
Great tigers of great power – projecting endless desire.
Now, though, we undo desire by giving you the enjoyment:
Drink, and thirst is gone; spout, and spouting’s done.”
All over the earth, as the sun goes down,
Lakes and ponds turn gold. A flaming drop has entered them.
Molten water matches sky and the clouds like islands
Floating there, while islands nesting underneath
Are clouds adrift on flame. Rings where a duck has dived
Or a fish has leapt interconnect as a female sun
Tosses her last wild locks at the night. Then serpents
Writhe across silver. Deer come to drink. And a tiger
Crouches by the bank, lapping up the moonlight.


The book is available from the outlets below. It also contains poems about Tottenham, where I live, in London, and poems inspired by my childhood.

Click Link to High Window Press for sales details (by scrolling down for my books on the link High Window Press).  This title can also be purchased from Tangoshiva on Ebay.
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Painted Pallets, June 2020.





















Painted pallets 41-60 (May 2020)

Painted pallets 21-40 (April 2020)

Painted pallets 1-20 (March 2020)

This brings my sequence of painted pallets to a close. By “pallets” I mean the sheets of cartridge paper I have beside me when I paint figurative water-colours – to test brushstrokes, paint load etc. I have now used up all the pallets I have kept. Further details concerning the project can be found at the end of the other links.

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Poor faun, who must expire,
Reflect me in your pupils.
Take my memory to dance
For my dark immortals.
Go, and tell those pensive dead
For whom my pranks were a joy so rare,
I dream of them beneath the yews
Where I walk, petite and near.
Describe my air, my brow so vivid,
Bound by woollen bandelettes;
How firm my mouth is, fingers plump
And redolent of grass and privet.
Tell them of my weightless moves
As various as the shadow play
That teeters through the living leaves
Innumerable in pearmen’s groves.
You can include the lazy look
That slows my eyelids, almost sullen,
How I do my evening dance
In a dress the breeze has swollen.
Whisper to them how I nap,
My bare arms folded underneath
My cheek, my skin with hint of gold
Admitting veins of violet.
Say how sweet it is to see
My hair as blue as plums can be
And how each foot reflects the other,
How the moon invades each eye.
And how, when dusk weighs sad and gloomy,
Cast down by the cool of springs
And aching for them and their love,
In vain I pull their shadows to me.


Comtesse Anna de Noailles (1876-1933)
Painting by Philip de Lazlo, completed 1913. Translation by Anthony Howell


Had she been reading Andrew Marvell? The Nymph Complaining for the death of her Faun.
The original is below:


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Joris-Karl Huysmans on Modern Art


One of my favourite authors! His views on Modern Art are at last translated by Brendan King (Dedalus, 2020).

Tim Keane has an excellent article about this in Hyperallergic – a very good art site.

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A Cloud Garden for Bruce Grove

Petition to make a Cloud Garden in Luke Howard’s House – The ‘Namer of Clouds’ resided in Bruce Grove, off Tottenham High Street. Here is a poem Goethe wrote to him.

When, from the water’s quiet mirror,
A mist floats off like a carpet
And the moon, wrapped in its undulations,
Revels in their haunted, haunting play,
Then we are pleased as children;
Watching it lift up the mountain,
Deepen and then spread,
Bar after bar, to become the sort
Of lowering sky that can go either way:
Soak us or pass on, overhead.
And if from there it should be raised
Up to a thinner atmosphere
How firmly based, how crisp it seems,
Towering, gathering all its splendour
For a proclamation on the plenitude of power
(Since what we fear may well be our fate).
We tremble in the shadow of its threatening.
Say it climbs higher still;
The threat now utterly removed
Into a heavenly lightness,
A mere something there that dissolves
Ever so softly; less than a patter of fleeces
Moving, deliciously combed,
Upwards from below, towards
Their Shepherd, into his lap and hand.
Yet all must be brought down
By the weight of our world.
Pierced, when dense and very large,
The stack must thunderously
Discharge, as armies do that roll out
In splendid array only to disintegrate;
The earth then receiving their remains.
But keep the eye on where it frays,
Describing what comes down while feeling
That it’s upwards we should always gaze.
After Goethe –  stratus, cumulus, cirrus, nimbus
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I Believe in Bill

People may dismiss my distrust of Bill Gates as conspiratorial, but wouldn’t I be even more spooky if I were to endorse his projects?  This thought inspired the following poem:




I believe in Bill because he’s right.
We are the plague in ourselves. We are the locusts
As much as actual locusts are. As a field
Has to lie fallow for a year, so a species
Needs to die back. So he’s right
To provide us with a vaccine that ensures
That our children will prove infertile,
Which is as it should be, ask Greta,
And she’ll say that’s what Uncle George says too.
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Painted Pallets, May 2020…










painted pallet 51












Continuation of my painted pallets – the sheets of cartridge paper I use to test brush loads and marks when I paint figurative watercolours. From limiting myself to adding one colour only per pallet, I have moved on to occasional use of white as well, and, in the latest ones, to adding no colour whatsoever, just adding water, using the pigment already on the paper.

Viewers are welcome to rotate the images.

Click the links below for earlier watercolours in the series:

Painted pallets 21-40 (April 2020) 

Painted pallets 1-20 (March 2020)

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An Essay on Fawzi Karim

Click here for my essay on Fawzi Karim  together with a selection of his verse in The latest issue of The High Window.

The two books of my versions of his poetry are Plague Lands and Incomprehensible Lesson – both published by Carcanet.

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Write where we are now

Pleased to see two more poems of mine in Write where we are Now

Carol Ann Duffy’s initiative with Manchester University, during lock-down. They have used four. I must say, I am encouraged! My thanks to all involved.

Scroll down for more, and you’ll find them.

Click for other Links to Poems of mine or browse down my “Poetry” category on here.

But the fact of the matter is I find it practically impossible to write or to read during the lock-down so I am doing watercolours instead, going for walks and dancing isolation tango.


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Painted Pallets, April 2020…





painted pallet 37










painted pallet 28









Click here for Painted Pallets 1- 20 

When I paint figurative watercolours, I always have a piece of paper of the same size next to my painting, where I can test my brush mark. I call it my pallet, and I have kept each of these over the years, and mid march I decided to paint each one, using only one colour per pallet.

This is the second batch of twenty, I’m still applying the rule of adding one colour per pallet, but decided to break a “watercolour rule” of only getting white by leaving the paper unpainted, this allowed the work to evolve, so that white is sometimes added.

As with the previous 20, it’s unclear to me whether there is or is not a “way up”. So feel free to flip.

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