Poetry arrived….in search of me. I don’t know…
I don’t know where it came from, from winter, or a river.
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 |
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?
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.