The Art Studio

The Art Studio


We ventured out,
My mother said it was late,
I felt the sunshine crease my eyes and knew it was early.
It was a winter day,
A sky so flat and white it was a tablecloth,
My breath was a dragon’s.
We walked past the streets of houses,
Crowded together like tiny cold birds,
The church bells rang out,
Brash laughter in the peace.
The white walls of the studio were made of memories,
Coloured canvases expertly hung.
Through the frozen window pane,
The market below was busy now,
I had a warm pork pie and dusty apple.
The room was bright
With hard winter sunshine.
My mother’s smile.
‘hold still’
As laughter rose up in me,
Bubbling lava of mirth.
Her apron dotted with paint stains,
Each a different day, a different brush stroke,
Her fingers smuged in charcoal,
She holds up a thumb,
Like a prize,
To measure the length of my nose.
I see her take me in,
Deep towards her breast bone,
To be kept safe next to her beating heart,
My soft smile,
The long willow branches of my hair,
My fur-lined hood,
A cheerful eskimo.
She hangs me flat on the wall,
Sketchy, a softly shaded character,
‘Clara in hooded jacket’, January 2003 by SM.
I fold her in my arms,
Solid, voluptuous,
A perfect love’s embrace.


by Clara Jean, 2003

Reflections on London

Reflections on London

Glorious City,
A modern Rome,
A haphazard chessboard,
People like ants swivel around its winding streets,
Buckingham palace, its queen bee,
The tongues of different lands,
Cakes of grey buildings,
The dead rise up and dance in the streets,
Curled stone, voluted columns,
Hatched pavements, smooth cobbles, bobble like apples in a barrel,
A stony Victorian sea,
Women curse and stumble through Covent Garden in their delicate heels,
And then!
The open freedom of the river,
Stretching out, flat, but wrinkled,
A gentle giant arm.
St. Paul’s, a pencil drawing in the distance,
Sketched by an architect still coughing from the Great Fire.
I sit and sip my coffee, velvet and warm,
Frothed by smiling Italians.

By Clara Jean