GUY MARTYR Artist
Contemporary fine artist based in Worcester UK
Maintaining art practice since 1987
POETRY BY GUY MARTYR
Forked lightning and thunder skies
mark the night,
while pulses of rain
renew earth
like destructive love.
The child in you is scared
of the bangs
and the ghoulish glow:
a reach to inner fears,
engendered in wombs.
100 years ago it was shells,
the whizz-bangs of the western front,
lighting the sky at night,
turning grown men to children
or shrivelled rags,
so keen for the comfort of mother,
or a fag and a smile
from Woodbine Willie.
2015
I'm freezing cold
because it's cold;
and perhaps I'm just not
eating enough.
Or I might be out in the cold,
writing poems for nobody,
cocooned in fears,
kept just warm enough
by Jesus and Mary.
Time to think about this
in Lent;
and time to let fear go,
. . .
though I don't need to be
giving up chocolate!
2016
Waiting in the wings
Waiting in the wings
for shiny things
to zing.
My heart's beats'
heat treats my feet,
normally neat,
to greater feats,
a longer reach
if pumping adrenalin
doesn't tip into fear
when all I can do
is trip on the stair,
my mind 'leer'.
These foolish things!
These skittish wings . . .
The peal just rings.
2015
All of the colours
don't amount to
all of the colours
Try to catch
every light -
a fool's game
A nuance
is accidental
and attractive
Like a wild flower -
to be left alone
to grow in peace.
Smile if you see one,
clap, when your painting
rings true
with a couple of colours
picked by you.
2012
Billions of bricks have been layed
- looks easy, until you try it:
try rolling the mortar,
laying the level course.
Look out of the window
- so many made by joiners' hands,
little monuments:
myriad histories
blinked past
unique skills,
experiences
and tales
un-numbered.
Basic, priceless,
beautiful.
2016
It marks a good day
if you talk about Nature
with someone unexpected.
Sometimes a dull cocoon
is rendered sparkling
by sudden sunshine.
Sullen faces are ours,
not the flowers'.
Ever-present Nature contains us:
the supposed Queens and Captains,
tolerated by dull earth, stones
and free air.
The wind in your hair,
a splash of rain on your face.
2016
Tales of tragedies trickle,
the point pierces the heart:
life ebbs from the wound
to satisfy drains and ants;
best human wants
surround the sun
and summer sky;
all primary colours
are represented here
in awful tension,
the good and bad
side-by-side,
as they always
seem to be.
Guy Martyr, November 2016
Christmas creeps,
jogs then runs
towards us.
Stressful preparation
is but a smoke screen
for sweet, rich cake.
It'll be all right
on the day
for the homeless
and the lonely.
Strife at home
will have an adversary
for a moment,
all too brief
but sweet and rich.
Guy Martyr, December 2016
May the management theories coalesce,
Philosophies of life resolve,
Religions and none
Unify:
Agenda, point one
Plan for enmities to dissolve
Say: Humanities offer to caress
themselves,
the earth,
the sky
a hymn of praise
in any tongue
for everyone
everyone.
Guy Martyr, January 2017
I am PASSIONATE about:
Passion,
Life and Love
and Falling in Love,
the Best and Worst of things.
This is Holy week:
the days tick by
till, you know,
X marks the spot:
then: sunny deliverance!
Daffodils!
Blue bells!
New green.
I'm passionate about all that!
Guy Martyr, April 2017
April Showers
This year April gave a mini drought:
I felt for my seeds
planted in hope
and our two new trees.
Now as the month draws to a close
Lo and behold!
It snows!
You could call this global warming -
global freezing, more like!
whichever way the science
does it for you . . .
The facts are inescapable:
a white dusting, hardly imagined,
settling on the waste.
Guy Martyr, April 2017
Ungraspable
A shadow,
nor a fairy light
will succumb to apprehension:
my hand will never
enclose them:
mystery, intrigue
draw me,
but sense keeps me at bay -
I know how near to tread,
then drop foolish notions
of understanding
the un-understandable,
get on with my real life,
no matter if the shadow
darkens deep,
or the fairy falls.
Guy Martyr 23/5/17
Forever Young
The face I have
is yours, smiling,
full of youthful zest,
hardly yet
exploded with love
or
marked with rejection.
Your mark was small,
but real,
joyous,
zealous,
you wore the ermine of a prince
and strode, or ran
insouciant,
oblivious to ditch or wall.
When I stare at your photo,
or glance, walking past
holding all those
imaginary conversations,
I don’t try to imagine
your matured features,
or the moment
you fell,
were blown up,
went missing
or whatever
(I never took too much notice).
No, you didn’t come back
of course,
I got a letter,
a visit
and a flag,
and a little later
a box of trinkets,
but none of that was quite enough
when I wanted your
carefree laugh
to come bounding in the door,
dumping a load of washing
and telling me about some
crazy adventure in Cyprus.
That’s all past now -
cried away on all
those rivers.
I enjoy life again,
I remember the light of
your sun,
cherish the years I had,
while you remain
in my heart,
forever young.
Guy Martyr 2014
'Box of Trinkets' 2019
Grey descends:
symptom of October,
the October of the soul.
Mist suffuses
all detail
to a 4H shading,
the base grading
of year's end,
longing for a firework.
You'd think the sun would
never shine again,
or a ray a smile induce:
the soul's dark juice
slowly draining.
Guy Martyr 18/10/17
Suffused by the sky
To pale pink-grey
An uncertain glow
that nets us all.
It's January,
and History
in tandem,
the cosmic bicycle.
Suffused by the sky
the clarion-call from on-high
strained through cotton wool
so we strain to hear.
What was that?
What did you say?
Suffused by the sky,
the high vault
constrains us by day,
sets us free at night
to gaze and dream.
Guy Martyr January 2019
Sunday
Been to church
. . .
Sitting on a bench
. . .
Magpie, and buzzing fly
and a bit of bird song nearby.
. . .
Sun and gentle breeze
are urging away the morning haze.
. . .
A little more song, amid the
faint hum of traffic is the
tune I hear.
Far away summits may tower,
but down here, me and the wheatear
and the scented flower near this chair
don't care.
All that is solid
melts into air.
Guy Martyr 10/6/18
Hewing:
the slow chipping
from far-yielding stuff -
granite, life,
till it begins to reveal its shape.
One for the patient:
satisfying and draining
in equal measure.
Perhaps that's the secret.
How easy the thought
of a button-push
to obtain any outcome;
how empty-like-froth
the final form.
Guy Martyr 6/3/18
Peace:
I reach for Peace
I speak for Peace
In peace, I believe.
I start here:
the man whose shoes I wear,
I'll try, I swear;
Now I've an idea
That peace inside =
peace outside
when I sleep,
or work and strive,
or drive.
It's time, I'm sure
To be that alive . . .
Guy Martyr 28/2/19
Suffused by the sky
To pale pink-grey
An uncertain glow
that nets us all.
It's January,
and History
in tandem,
the cosmic bicycle.
Suffused by the sky
the clarion-call from on-high
strained through cotton wool
so we strain to hear.
What was that?
What did you say?
Suffused by the sky,
the high vault
constrains us by day,
sets us free at night
to gaze and dream.
Guy Martyr January 2019