We’re thrilled to introduce a talented group of writers and poets who add depth and narrative to our exploration of movement and kinetic art. Each contributor brings a unique voice, weaving stories, reflections, and poetic interpretations that breathe life into the artworks. Through prose and verse, they capture the energy, rhythm, and emotional resonance of movement, offering new dimensions and perspectives on each piece. This collaboration between visual art, writing, and poetry invites readers to experience movement not only as something seen but also as something deeply felt and imagined.
Artist name
TODDY HOARE
links - https://www.broad-canvas.com/gallery?artist=57221
Off to see Manzu on the no 30 bus…
There are leaves on the chestnut in Euston Square;
A sign of spring so the tourists appear.
Queues of kids outside Madam Tussauds
While building progresses behind billboards.
In Baker Street, they search for Holmes.
Back home supermarkets sell garden gnomes.
The waiting traffic is thick
Exhaust fumes make one sick.
Three stations all in a row
From which no steam trains go.
Despite high canopies that caught the smoke
No more smells of burning coal and coke.
Up the hill past Pentonville a fill of art
Beckons from an artist close to the heart.
Reminiscences on the dog walk.
Today I dog walked to the spindle tree
Two buzzards mewed overhead.
Earworm “What do you do my lovely
When you’re alone in your bed?”.
Silhouette from the low morning sun
Elongated shadow like a Giacometti figure
Without its worried roughness scratched and raw.
Mindful of that military pastime
Silhouette recognition, enemy kit,
Alternative to what Henry Reed wrote with wit
“Today we have naming of parts”
Info on rifle anatomy starts.
“Remove headdress” the Church parade commands;
Girls’ groomed hair retained berets demands.
Or on a rainy day.
Chasing the Rainbow.
Do you remember that child’s treasure hunt
Chasing the rainbow across the fields destined
Not to catch those coloured columns revealed,
Standing sentinel as the rain finished,
While the setting sun burnished
Grey clouds along the weather front?
Always, always those spectrum pillars,
Supporting their half-halo sometimes reflected
Behind, retreated as fast as you approached.
That promise of gold at the foot mocked,
Never to be there for its foundation
Has no permanence, nor is ground-locked.
The gold is God’s promise of salvation
Never to wipe man out by inundation.
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Artist name Dave Kurley
Links to social media
Instagram: @kurleybobspoetrycorner https://www.facebook.com/kurleybobspoetrycorner
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Artist name - Finn Dobson
Links to social media - www.instagram.com/raw_edges_
240818 Igshaan Adams: Weerhound
As a fairly new wheelchair user, I've found it difficult to settle into the different rhythms of movement that my body now makes. I went to see Igshaan Adams 'Weerhound' at the Hepworth Museum, where he explored "the impact of lived experiences and traumas on the human psyche, with a particular emphasis on the healing potential of movement". This was a transformative experience not just because of the incredible quality of art on display, but because Adams' relationship to movement, and how this was captured in his sculpture, changed how I moved my body (and chair) within the space. I have attempted to capture this feeling within this poem.
240818 Igshaan Adams: Weerhound
A shower head,
A shroud,
A solar system.
My wheels mimic the curves
Of wires,
Beaded rope
My spokes.
My hands are drawn in new ways,
Find new flows:
A river dance of pearls,
A woven waterfall.
Chains unravelling
Like tear tracks,
Choked back.
Clouds nestle the cotton wool
Of my seizure-addled brain.
I'm reeling, feeling so
So seen by sculpture,
Feeling the ghosts
And shrouds of gods;
The weight(lessness)
Of trauma
Unwound.
Unbound from
“Wheelchair-bound” vehicles
I become the vehicle for
New pathways.
The neural networks of
Strings above my head
Untangled.
And suddenly I see
How movement hasn’t left me,
Movement can become me:
New shapes,
New paths to trace,
New ways of
Feeling weightless
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Artist name - Kate Rigby
Links to social media
Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/authorrigby
Blogs: https://authisticwords.blogspot.com/
http://bubbitybooks.blogspot.com
Instagram: https://instagram.com/kate_jay_r
TikTok: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGJTtmSAk/
YouTube: https://youtube.com/@TheBubbity
Website
Website: https://kjrbooks.yolasite.com/
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Artist name Lilian Alice Spivey
Links to social media @emilyaspivey
The shadow of a dancer
Trigger warning: mention of suicide
The shadow of a dancer is a poem about disruption to the flow of movement, to the living dynamic process that is life. Linguistically, the poem navigates tonal shifts as the speaker wrestles with a memory, exploring the tendency of the traumatised psyche to dissolve itself as soon as it arises. Permeating this notion is an equally captive contemplation of the body and how the layering of form creates a rich tapestry of evasion. As bodies shift, the boundary between human and non-human blurs, caught up in the desire to move, in a dance that stirs all. This poem is informed by two things: an ambulance report I found recently, of an overdose I attempted at aged 21: and dances I have been doing in the woods for the last two years, as a means of process.
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Artist name Xavier Panades I Blas
Links to social media https://www.facebook.com/thepoetrybeast,
@thepoetrybeast, @the_poetry_beast
Website
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Artist name Karl Pont
Links to social media https://www.instagram.com/pont.karl/
train of life
Description
I am fascinated by experimental photography, and this piece is an expression of that passion. It was taken during an evening train journey, somewhere far from home. The passing landscape and fleeting encounters with people and places symbolize life itself to me. As we travel through the world, we catch glimpses of people who then disappear in an instant, like fleeting shadows. Places rush past us, almost as if they were never truly there. These moments, captured in motion, feel like brief stops on the train of life—events and encounters that are only conscious to us for a split second before we’re carried forward. This photograph captures that sense of transience. Life sometimes feels as though it’s passing us by while we’re in constant motion, rarely finding the time to pause and reflect. To me, this image is a symbol of the journey of life—with all its unexpected encounters, brief moments, and the persistent drive forward. I am personally very fond of this photo, as it reminds me that, while life is always in motion, it still offers us moments of stillness and reflection.
Lucerne
I opened my eyes again. Outside in Lucerne, it was still that same gray, cold day. A tour boat slid by the window, loaded with tourists huddled closely together on the outer deck. Inside, the Japanese tourist was swimming her laps in the pool, undeterred, as if it were her life’s mission. It seemed as though she’d started an eternity ago. Ichi-go ichi-e.
I looked at my phone. The message was clear—it was time to go. I couldn’t waste a minute. The train to Zurich would leave in an hour, and I could make it.
The elegantly dressed spa attendant drifted through the room, arranging the tray with the samovar and lemon water. Her gaze lingered briefly on the “Men’s Health Collector’s Edition” from October 2024. After waiting a moment, she disappeared again into the labyrinth of spa and massage rooms. The password for my locker was still the same. Just as I was about to leave, she appeared again, “Is this your first time here?” she asked politely, her tone filled with a practiced friendliness. “May I explain the functions of the lockers to you?” A young couple entered the changing area, curiosity in their eyes as they followed her.
Fifty minutes until the train to Zurich. I could make it—I had to make it.
My suitcase in the hotel room was almost packed, as if I’d known for a long time. A faint sense of foreboding hung in the air.
At the reception desk of the Grand Hotel National, the receptionist seemed slightly puzzled. She probably hadn’t expected to see me again so soon. The trainee beside her was visibly surprised too. Disbelieving, almost wary, the receptionist took my card. It was as though I had disrupted the equilibrium of this place for a brief moment, an unexpected break in the routine.
"Have you helped yourself at the buffet?" she examined me closely. “Have you already paid for your meal? Not yet?” Her eyes seemed to look deeper than the moment called for. “You have to pay for everything in life.”
Her words echoed in my mind as I hastily responded and turned away.
“Wait,” she said, holding me back. “You still need the fare for the crossing.”
Hurriedly, I stuffed the coins into my pocket.
The tourists, who had arrived in Lucerne with such anticipation, passed by me in disappointment. The cold, dreary day had smothered their expectations with its relentless veils of mist. The postcard scenes they’d hoped for had faded into the bleak colors of October. Faces full of fatigue and emptiness. As I pushed through the crowd, my gaze fell on one tourist. For a brief moment, our eyes met—and in his face, I saw my own. A shiver ran through me. Then he disappeared back into the crowd, and the moment was gone, as if it had never happened.
Twenty minutes left until the train to Zurich.
Asya, the curator, stood by the window of the Kornschütte. She’d been visibly pleased I’d come, but the joy in her eyes turned to melancholy when she saw my suitcase. Her smile vanished, and a heavy silence settled over us. I reached for the papers on the table. She said nothing. Wordlessly, I turned and ran out. “Safe journey,” I heard her whisper softly and tentatively behind me.
On platform 3, they were already waiting. All stood motionless, their gazes empty and withdrawn, as if waiting for something inevitable. Meanwhile, the Japanese tourist at the Grand Hotel was likely still swimming her laps, undeterred and unhurried, as if time had forgotten her.
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