(no subject)
Two poems I wrote for class this weekend:
HOW A PAINTER KNOWS WHEN TO QUIT
(based on Chagall's painting "Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers")
I’ve always dreamt of having seven fingers.
I’d dip and curl each one into the rainbow wells
of my porcelain palette. Forget the brush.
Smear the shock of cobalt blue, letting index
fingerprints decorate the walls. Outline the
shadow of each hour with greens to make
time natural. With woody colors, follow
the grain of floorboards. I’d ease their strict
rhythm with my flow.
But when I did gain these dreamy extremities,
it was far from the exalting oneness I
had hoped for. Forget the brush? Impossible.
There are always bulls’ horns to arch with
the stroke of fine fiber. Church steeples
would lose their strict architecture. How
awkwardly I painted these-my fingers
fighting for a place to grip and steady. And
when I realized I had five, not seven, fingers,
I dropped my brush in horror. My hands inept,
I knew it was time to quit.
DEATH BY BUTTERSCOTCH
Grandma was the culprit, candy her vehicle.
My hand went fishing into a cellophane sea
of peppermint, cinnamon, and caramel. I
hooked a piece of butterscotch and went in
for the kill. She only meant to cheer a melting
Miami day, but when my tongue wrapped the
flawless disc, I let it slip too far back. That
lozenge eddied my airflow until I looked blue,
like a still born baby. The world went fuzzy
until the butterscotch was just a spot on a
salmon bath mat. Tears and golden stained
saliva took over the surrendering blue.
A few hours later, I ripped the dead, dried
candy from the rug and laughed at its new
frizzy hair-do.
HOW A PAINTER KNOWS WHEN TO QUIT
(based on Chagall's painting "Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers")
I’ve always dreamt of having seven fingers.
I’d dip and curl each one into the rainbow wells
of my porcelain palette. Forget the brush.
Smear the shock of cobalt blue, letting index
fingerprints decorate the walls. Outline the
shadow of each hour with greens to make
time natural. With woody colors, follow
the grain of floorboards. I’d ease their strict
rhythm with my flow.
But when I did gain these dreamy extremities,
it was far from the exalting oneness I
had hoped for. Forget the brush? Impossible.
There are always bulls’ horns to arch with
the stroke of fine fiber. Church steeples
would lose their strict architecture. How
awkwardly I painted these-my fingers
fighting for a place to grip and steady. And
when I realized I had five, not seven, fingers,
I dropped my brush in horror. My hands inept,
I knew it was time to quit.
DEATH BY BUTTERSCOTCH
Grandma was the culprit, candy her vehicle.
My hand went fishing into a cellophane sea
of peppermint, cinnamon, and caramel. I
hooked a piece of butterscotch and went in
for the kill. She only meant to cheer a melting
Miami day, but when my tongue wrapped the
flawless disc, I let it slip too far back. That
lozenge eddied my airflow until I looked blue,
like a still born baby. The world went fuzzy
until the butterscotch was just a spot on a
salmon bath mat. Tears and golden stained
saliva took over the surrendering blue.
A few hours later, I ripped the dead, dried
candy from the rug and laughed at its new
frizzy hair-do.