Paintings, Fallen in the Field, Severance Rehearsal
Carrying paintings from storage to living-room,
hanging them for dissection by light, the artist’s work
is under scrutiny of the camera. Chronicles of
misfortune, sharp as contracted pupils, plus the
immeasurable tenderness of women, have endured.
There were photograph albums in the attic,
black, heavy, bound with brass screws.
My father constructed them so that
when self-worth was low, we had a chronicle.
Fallen in the field
Tree’s boughs are fractured, trunk is snapped.
Ash had escaped chain-sawing farmers for whom
it had been both obstruction and potential firewood,
because in youth, they had carved names.
Fairies and foxgloves had long departed,
plough cutting closer each year. Vitality,
settings clasping jade in grandmother’s necklace,
had weakened, tree scattering its galaxy of green.
Chain-saw men spray wood-shine. In nearby
muddy puddles, reflected upside-down birch trees
scatter leaves, ocher and umber,
creating a new meniscus of enchantment.
Putting a few into space to ogle earth
(paying a ransom for the privilege) and hearing
Virgin’s man calling his ship sexy seems perverse.
Whenever resources are placed at the disposal
of vainglory, a tryst with nature is broken.
Yet the spirit of adventure is uncontainable!
Mirroring his disease, cyborg Hawkins collapses
boundaries and time. Seizing the fiction
of cryogenics to reach goldilocks regions,
he imagines humans constructing replicas of Dubai.
Space travel is past’s severance rehearsal.
Yet existence reveals meaning simply by
become immersed in it.
The petal as it falls makes music;
dissolution of form and eternal transience
being an orchestra needing no director.
By Misha Norland
Misha’s legacy is immense, his footprints carved in stone in a myriad homeopathic nooks and crannies. He left a wealth of riches for every student, every homeopath, for every school - and so he will be remembered with the greatest of ease. Above all he left his sons to carry on his healing traditions.
Misha was our father, our grandfather, our beacon. Misha was the last bridge between the old and new eras of homoeopathy, yet always a pioneer. Misha was the founder of our schools. Misha was the face of peace and tranquility, the heart of love and poetry, the mind of metaphor.
Misha had a magical way of bringing joy every time he walked into the classroom. No one who met him could forget his smile. And I'll never forget the advice and the lessons he taught me. His wisdom will forever guide me in my homeopathic practice. Misha was a man who set a lasting impression on everyone he met. His deep laugh and kind eyes warmed the room and brought life into the most boring subjects in the class. He was a great teacher and a dependable friend.
Dear Misha, Dear old friend, So vital So full of Love, So curious, So good friendship, So loyal. Thanks for being in my life since 1984. 36 years. We connect sure in the next realm.