A few months ago I was honoured to be invited to write and perform a poem for the 30th Anniversary of Rochdale Artists. In the run up to the event I worked on my poem which went through several iterations before I finally settled on placing a number of well known artists from the past in the context of Rochdale, past future and present.

The event took place today at The Coachhouse in Littleborough with a buffet lunch and an exhibition which will run for a month.

George Hardy, president of Rochdale Artists introduced the Mayor of Rochdale who spoke about the exhibition, his own interest in art and the importance of the arts to our society.

The Mayor’s comments were added to by Councillor Janet Emsley, cabinet member for communities and culture, who spoke of the value of such organisations and the people who run them. It was then time for my poem to have its first outing, having been previously only read out loud in an empty room.

I’ve reproduced the full poem, The Artists in Rochdale, below:

The Artists in Rochdale

By Broadfield’s pond, I paused,

to sit on Monet’s stool,

as rare morning-dappled-sunlight painted the lilies,

en plein air.

I wondered at Gaudi’s natural forms on the banks of the Roch,

and MacIntosh’s tulips grew in the borders

beyond the gates of Falinge Park.

In Healey’s deep Dell I listened to the water

tumbling, turning and smoothing the rocks

and I glimpsed Hepworth’s hammer and chisel

through the mid-day mist

and she knew; that I knew.

In the early afternoon,

just below Littleborough’s Summit,

under ominous clouds

Constable was painting the lock gates.

And as Lowry sketched the early evening workers

leaving Townhead Mill,

I saw Paul Gauguin painting the town,

in greens, oranges and reds with a dash of purple,

and was that Banksy skulking in the corners

on Toad Lane?

I found Braque’s brushes, still wet

In the bushes by Touchstones.

And Picasso’s palette blue, and blue

and blue

abandoned on a bench by the Butts

Beside half a can of Special Brew

And an uneaten slice of pizza

Mondrian taking “as little as possible of reality”,

shared his disapproval of Rochdale’s,

gone but not forgotten, Black Box;

It needed more lines, some blocks of colour.

It was just there;

that Boccioni

glimpsed a different future

on Riverside.

Matisse was still cutting cardboard corners

in Yorkshire Street.

Damian Hirst was counting sheep

by the Arndale

and that tent pitched at Rakewood?

not camping with the scouts,

but artwork with Tracey.

As evening faded to night

Vincent gazed into the sky over Cronkeyshaw

And whipped up a storm in oils.

I caught a dazed Dali doodling

and dallying a little too long in the Baum

and time just melted,

merged

and drifted away

I met Toulouse living it up in the Olde Boar’s Head

and in a quiet corner Miss Stansfield posed for Leonardo.

Seurat and Signat were arguing at the bar

each making their point,

by point,

by point,

a million times.

And Rembrandt peered out of the darkness

And was that really Duchamp I saw,

taking the p*** in The Regal Moon?

And I swear I found a piece of Vincent’s ear

in the gutter by the Flying Horse

And where are the artists now?

The creation, the endeavour, the wit

Where now, the watercolours, the oils,

the pencils, the inks,

the charcoal and pastels?

Well the artists are still right here

and only the names have changed.

With their riggers, their filberts and mops,

with Kolinsky sable and Russian squirrel

with Taklon and badger and hog.

An apothecary of Cambium, Cobolt and Zinc

With their Prussian Blue and French Aquamarine

And their whites; their whites

So many shades of white

And they’re talking and painting,

and looking and drawing.

And they’re;

on the walls.

And they’re watching and waiting.

If you linger, to look, a little longer

you might be an unwitting model,

like Miss Stansfield with Leonardo.

You may be drawn

or drawn-in,

to a chat,

a cup of tea

and a Rochdale world of art,

because after 30 years;

there is life-still

in the artists,

in Rochdale,

today.