Monday, April 16, 2012

Poetry Arrived...Faces

Poetry arrived....in search of me. I don't know...
I don't know where it came from, from 
winter, or a river.
I don't know how or when...  -Pablo Neruda

I love words. 
Margaret Atwood, best known for her novels, The Handmaid's Tale and The Blind Assassin, once said that if she were to pick a favorite word, it would be "and," because it is so hopeful.

And I love faces. How we learn to hide behind a smiling face; tuck away emotions, disguise or mask how we really feel. So I decided to combine my love of words and my current art project, which is drawing quick sketches of faces (using oil pastels) with an exercise in word play, to create a poem to accompany each sketch. This is like a dart game. I don't know where the dart's going to stick; I just aim my attention at the target and follow whatever word or image slips out.  So here goes.


little patience
I wanted freedom
babbling to the bus driver
pitted concrete, muddy water, yellow daffodils
please sit.
quiet down, down

1975
river rock, early morning thunder
gas station parking, cheap hotel lobbies
listless, averse to crowds and
drunk on ice, love


                                                                           I'm George
                                                                          or Littlefish
                                                       I had a father who didn't say goodbye
                                                      my mother has a lion heart, strong legs
                                                                 and tiny cooking hands but
                                                                        her tail, I'm afraid,
                                                                            is thinning.


There is not one Truth, but
many truths. One is:
white people don't share.
Two: stones are alive.
Three: I have seen the sunrise, and that is all I need to know.




Maiden: wildflowers, angel hair, fire in the belly
Mother: midnight feedings, cognitive dissonance, apologetic children
Crone: borrowed candles, barren trees, 

a black dented pot

2 comments:

  1. oh monica, so striking. i am struck. i love waking up to a post like this. are they real? they seem real. but then what IS real?

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  2. Ha m! Fictitious; except 1975 and maiden (my husband & I a long time ago).
    I'm happy I brought a twinkle of interest to your day.

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