My favourite artists: Yulia Brodskaya

Yulia Brodskaya is a Russian artist who now lives in the UK.  I discovered her gorgeous paper quilling work by accident when I bought a small notebook with her art on the cover. I love the swirling lines, the colour and how visible her patience and effort is in the finished product. Her work is so incredibly detailed that there's really only room for one image on the page.

My favourite artists: Marci McDonald

There's a game going around Facebook at the moment: when you like the post, your friend assigns you an artist. You then search for works by that artist, pick your favourite, post it and the cycle begins again. It's a refreshing change from the usual Christmas-elf-name nonsense that gets passed around.

It's reminded me of how much art is out there, and how the many, many artists I admire are only the tiniest proportion of what's available. The internet makes it unbelievably easy to discover new works, without having to walk for miles around an art gallery looking for those few pieces that touch you just so.

Marci McDonald is an artist based in Tampa Bay.  I first discovered Marci's paintings years ago. I have a few of her images saved in a folder somewhere on my computer, but I had long forgotten her name and had tried fruitlessly to find her again. Somehow that little Facebook game led me to her again.

She describes her work as 'sensual fine art'. I find there's definitely a sensuality to her art, even when it depicts 'just' a flower. I like the delicate colours, sweeping curves, fine detail and sheer beauty in her pieces. Here are a few of my favourites.

"ladywhite"

"raspberries"

"echo"

"white shell"

"phoenix series 4"

"a paper veil"

Bone

There's a poem lodged
in my throat like the
clear bone of a fish
thin and prickle-ended
a filament of clarity that
I swallowed in the night
giving way to the heavy
drape of unrequited sleep

It's jammed in that place
before air can become a word
stubborn as a memory
so I cough and harrumph
swallow and stretch, trying
to dislodge the bone of a
poem wedged in my throat

Any way is fine, up or down
I don't mind if only I can
get it out, unstuck. I have
better uses for my throat
for my scratched voice: today
I must warble like a magpie

City life

Some days I think I can't possibly stand another minute in the city.  Then I see a group of tourists jumping into the air in front of a fountain for a photo. And just now, a whistling man on a skateboard, with dry cleaning slung over his shoulder. And it gets a little easier to stay.

A warning for my future lover/s

Be careful of taking a poet for a lover
for she cannot wear her love in silence

She will catalogue the flaws in your skin
and the reasons she finds them there
the flow of your breath when you sleep
and your exhalations when you make love
the soft dough of your face when you wake
the rumble of your laugh spilling over
the wonder of finding in the dead of winter
that her hands are always warmer than yours

She will tell everyone about the way that
(despite your worldliness and machismo)
you kiss her mouth as if you can’t help yourself
of the way your thoughts simmer and surface
surprising, like bubbles in hot mud pools
and always she will write, of you, of herself
trying to find better and better words for
the mystery, the matter that binds you together

Be careful of taking a poet for a lover
for what a poet loves she must write