Archive for July, 2013


Posted: July 7, 2013 in Home




Excessive pride or self-confidence.

(in Greek tragedy) Excessive pride toward or defiance of the gods, leading to nemesis.



Bruno Catalano

Posted: July 7, 2013 in Home
Tags: ,

marseilles sculpture_edited-1

The sky is faultless geometered blue.
I won’t call it cerulean because that’s too dark.
I like the sound of mazarine but that is all.
Perhaps a watered manganese?
Or Old Holland’s B259 blue-grey. (Of course
it’s not sky-blue, it never is.).

Nothing is right. Try #ccffff color hex,
#caelff (a light steel blue), no # f0f8ff.
That’s Alice blue, a blue that’s pared to silver
though it is a summer’s day where you would
expect more of it.

And you, you. You are attacking vegetables,
amd dragging wood around, and hurling it
down with a vibrating thump. And now I see
you sawing something, slogging in the sun’s grip.


…..and now


Wimbledon is over and Andy has really

come good for us.

He is on the ground kissing the grass.

And now you have taken a kite and a camera out.


I picture your face turned up to that sky

while it takes pictures

of Westgate Wood and the Sir Joseph Banks Country Park


ticking round 360 degrees in 3 second



last night I dreamt you were
new minted
as that lucky
which I did not know
they churn out every year

the poetry of butterflies


adonis blue black hairstreak

brimstone brown argus

brown hairstreak chalkhill blue

chequered skipper clouded yellow



common blue dark green fritillary

dingy skipper duke of burgundy

glanville fritillary grayling

green hairstreak green-veined white

grizzled skipper


heath fritillary high brown fritillary

holly blue large blue large heath

large skipper large white lulworth skipper

marbled white marsh fritillary meadow brown

mountain ringlet


orange tip painted lady

peacock pearl bordered fritillary

purple emperor purple hairstreak

red admiral ringlet scotch argus

silver washed fritillary


silver spotted skipper silver studded blue

small blue small copper small heath

small pearl bordered fritillary small skipper

small tortoiseshell speckled wood small white



wall white admiral white letter hairstreak

wood white and the aberrations

that stuff on the scilly isles  that’s passing by

and the wood whites in ireland whose genitalia

are not the same

This is like one of those places you visit

and you know you have been before.

It isn’t déjà vu –  some  Schrödinger’s

memory. This is real.


It’s the door you open when you have to

meet your dead. I am holding it shut

for I do not want to go


There’s quite a mix in there. Don’t look.


This should write itself for I have words.

The page should fill itself with a jumble

of protest. Or a jungle even. I have



Such a strange time. Waiting. Both in

And out of time. Pre op. They have words

To cosy us. I have spoken of this before

as I have words.


They have your blood and your heartbeat

and now they are looking in your chest

where the bones are cradling your



Do they know that I have held you and felt

your beating heart on mine. Love is drawn

as a heart, with arrows, and Christ holds out

his bleeding heart. Pierced also.


Make it more relevant!

Someone is lecturing her junior, calling over

her shoulder, impatiently as she leaves a room






It doesn’t say that.


In the toilet with its plastered signs daring you to

smoke someone is rushing to a meeting, pushing past

where I am looking in the mirror with eyes that

ought to have bled away their colour. No?


More relevant. I watch the  procession of the halt

and lame and someone whose feet turn up like

jester’s shoes. While you are somewhere

being processed.


You are becoming a patient, and you carry your

big brown envelope which tells them all your stats.

It’s in the Tesco carrier full of your pills.

Remember. Don’t take clopidogrel.


And I think I love the young.

At the bus stop after my squabbling stint as

driver we pass a mother with her little girl;

she strokes her face with such a light of


tenderness. In the field two horses stand

rubbing noses like the Inuit are said to do.

A coloured foal dances along their sides.



Now I am patient too, like waiting for a

birth. Or some other alteration.


They will saw through your sternum

and display your beating heart, all

that mess you see in butchers’  shops

where I always say I don’t eat offal.


I want to share the venom of this

misery, it’s like a wound. Suppurating

and thick as  – don’t say blood – I have

words. My misery stains each day.


Don’t say tears. Like pus. The colours

are so ugly that I cannot look.

You say I’m ready now I wasn’t now I am

I will die if it isn’t done it’s my only chance.


And talk about your death or if you are left hanging

in the soft plush of some unknowable place

between life and death. Do not resuscitate

you say. There must be cosy words for that.