For our online session this Saturday 6th March 2021 we are going to be inspired by Poetry, when we listen to/or read it; invoking our imagination, conjuring images in our mind. The session will explore techniques to capture these images while we listen to the poets; Dylan Thomas, Sylvia Plath and Owen Sheers.
For this session you need to your Imagination! and your art supplies we will start with pencil and then go into colour using pens, crayons, inks, pastels (chalk or oil or both) and watercolour paints and lots of paper…
Taking inspiration from Peter Blake – Under Milk Wood project – more information can be found here.
We are going to listen to Dylan Thomas, Sylvia Plath and Owen Sheers
Watch and Listen to Amanda Gorman The Hill We Climb
- Pencils 2B +
- Coloured Pencils, Pens, Crayons, Inks, Pastels (chalk or oil or both)
- Watercolours or Watercolour Inks
- Paper – Lots of it – Large Size – Try a roll of lining paper
- Coloured paper – colour it yourself prior to the session using watercolour inks or natural materials
- Water Coloured Paper if your have some
- Brushes – thin, flat and wide
- Plastic sheets to put the paint on or flat plates
- Cloth x 2
- We will do a warm-up using our bodies and minds…
- We will do some quick drawing exercises
- Using Pencils – 2B + & coloured pencils making delicious BOLD lines marks experiments,
- using quick line techniques
- continuous line
- Repeated lines – backward – forwards
- other hand
- Then using any of our materials we will listen to a series of poems, drawing/painting what we see in our mind when we listen to the poetry.
When: Saturday 6th March 2021
Time: 10:30am – 12:00 noon
Starting at 10:30am prompt
Location: From the comfort of your own home through Zoom ( Zoom – not used it before then you will have to sign up it FREE)
Interested – Please email us at firstname.lastname@example.org to sign up for the sessions
The Light Fell by Owen Sheers
The weather was confused all day
so who can say why it was just then
the light fell that way –
the sun riding low, burnishing
for a minute, no more, the tops of the hills
against a curtain of cloud, ashen with rain and snow.
Or why it was then the deer chose to show their faces,
lift their heads from grazing, step near, pause
before coming on again.
‘Oh human life, mysterious,’ I heard a woman say,
‘not gone, oh no, not gone. There’s electrics you know.
I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it to be so.’
And as the light fell drew our eyes, a thinning seam of amber
compressed between the land and sky,
I could believe it too.
That your guiding hand had motion still
and influence among these hills, to light the Crag and Michael’s Vale
just so, according to your will.
And as the soil hit the wood and the gathered crowd moved,
pressed arms, said what they could, wished well and farewell,
that it was just as much you as the still lowering sun
that threw one flank of the valley dark
and left the other lit,
to illustrate, as the land here always did,
what we’d but sensed within ourselves.
How at once and from the very same source,
a light could rise, as the same light fell.
Candles by Sylvia Plath
They are the last romantics, these candles:
Upside-down hearts of light tipping wax fingers,
And the fingers, taken in by their own haloes,
Grown milky, almost clear, like the bodies of saints.
It is touching, the way they’ll ignore
A whole family of prominent objects
Simply to plumb the deeps of an eye
In its hollow of shadows, its fringe of reeds,
And the owner past thirty, no beauty at all.
Daylight would be more judicious,
Giving everybody a fair hearing.
They should have gone out with the balloon flights and the stereopticon.
This is no time for the private point of view.
When I light them, my nostrils prickle.
Their pale, tentative yellows
Drag up false, Edwardian sentiments,
And I remember my maternal grandmother from Vienna.
As a schoolgirl she gave roses to Franz Josef.
The burghers sweated and wept.
The children wore white.
And my grandfather moped in the Tyrol,
Imagining himself a headwaiter in America,
Floating in a high-church hush Among ice buckets, frosty napkins.
These little globes of light are sweet as pears.
Kindly with invalids and mawkish women,
They mollify the bald moon.
Nun-souled, they burn heavenward and never marry.
The eyes of the child I nurse are scarcely open.
In twenty years I shall be retrograde
As these drafty ephemerids.
I watch their spilt tears cloud and dull to pearls.
How shall I tell anything at all
To this infant still in a birth-drowse?
Tonight, like a shawl, the mild light enfolds her,
The shadows stoop over the guests at a christening.
Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.