The Sunday Whirl
THE FIRES OF SUMMER
the poet accepts the role seduced by the smell of the grease paint
dons his mask plays his part he feels his skin is no longer his own
digs into his past fears he will be scorned he is a virgin
this is his first time he hides his face in hopes he will not be recognized
hopes no one sees him will he stay or will he flee
the storm gathers on the horizon dark clouds threaten the whole country dry
there is need of rain wildfires burn last year was bad
this year worse we were warned we did not listen
July 16, 2017
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Sunday's Whirligig
WORDS OF AN ARTIST
i am not a man do not live in a monastery follow no religion
i am a monk in my cell stirring paint carefully
applying to canvas these paintings i create
are like pages of a journal hanging on the wall struggling to be free
at the end of the day covered in paint i step into my bath
the water takes on the colors of the rainbow red, blue, yellow
purple orange and green the water looks like fire licking the edges
the crow black as night sits in the leafless tree
mocking me most of what he says is in his own language
no longer dirty i listen to his message know the value of his words
the soap rests in its’ bamboo holder i slip into my role as wife
which also hangs on the wall waiting we travel together in dreams
skin against skin endless kisses moonlight shines through the window
July 15, 2017
“Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it we go nowhere.” -Carl Sagan
18 comments:
Nice canvases, both. "he feels his skin is no longer his own"...My favorite line from the first one.
Wonderful scenes.. the masquerade of poet, as wife.. true life!
Wonderful, Annell. The fires of summer are burning here, too,whole towns being evacuated, lots os loss of life for domestic and wild animals. Horrible. In your second poem, i love the switch from artist to wife at day's end.
We all wear masks, play roles, and you dance through them with ease and a very light foot. Clapping,
Elizabeth
My I love the pictures you paint with words....I loved both but oh the first one seduced me as I read it over and over....it was the first line that drew me in and kept me hostage.
Luv the way Wife emerges after the paint has been washed away. Magnificent piece of writing Annell
Happy you dropped by my Sunday Standard today
Much love...
This is my new favourite from you, Annell ❤️
The wildfires should be a warning shouldn't they (or should have been a long time ago)
Another wonderful visit, reading your work.
ZQ
These are my favorites:
"i am a monk in my cell stirring paint carefully"
"at the end of the day covered in paint i step into my bath
the water takes on the colors of the rainbow red, blue, yellow
purple orange and green the water looks like fire licking the edges"
"we travel together in dreams"
Ah, the fires of summer seem to get worse every year. If ONLY we would begin to listen...
Two fascinating pieces - each of them from different perceptions - but both of them, compellingly perceptive. The second one, in particular,I found quite mesmerizing. I think I spotted an extended metaphor swirling in those colors - brilliantly rendered.
Writing, painting...escape tunnels, aren't they. Love your poetry
How beautifully introspective both poems were. How fitting that both artist and poet were portrayed to play their part in the writing which you do and I particularly like the way the crow talks to you; hopefully to give you inspiration.
What a pairing--words of a poet and of an artist! I hope the poet will stay and witness the fires in person and words. I hope the art keeps on speaking and the birds and the artist and the wife, too. Interestingly, the next midweek motif is MASKS.
The poet and painter are like shaman travelers of the inner world. A whirl of a read for sure.
masks are meant to obscure
like words without meaning
Often used to good effect in creating some form of diversion of strategies!
Hank
Awesome blog, i always enjoy & read the post you are sharing!
Thank for your very good article...!
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