Photographs and paintings - as well as sight in general, including vision and imagination - have intrigued many poets, storytellers, and novelists in Canada and elsewhere. Please choose two (or more) poems or fictional texts that focus on the seen world in some way or another and comment on them in detail.
If you prefer, you can write a poem or short story yourself instead (or in addition) in which sight plays an important role and publish it as comment.
If you prefer, you can write a poem or short story yourself instead (or in addition) in which sight plays an important role and publish it as comment.
Image from: http://pixabay.com/p-161558/?no_redirect
The Painting of a Vase of Sunflowers Above My Bed
ReplyDelete—Steps Away (John Clegg)
III.
Sand-coloured corn and eggshell flowers blend
together on their
prairie-farm, floating away
into glacial peaks.
The fence of the farm meanders
unevenly, and haphazardly, around the land,
as if the farmer knew that
serenity was ever-lasting.
II.
Three emerald green leaves lay
strewn about the garbage bin,
the clippings one sees in the archaic
florists of Paris.
Bins filled to the penultimate point
with clippings of stems and leaves, and they smell
of water and northern country--among
the bins of clippings, content homeless rest, in Paris.
I.
Three bowing geishas stretch
out their arms for balance,
seconds prior to their muscles tightening, halting
forward motion.
Heads down in subordination,
the fragility of mind matters not,
for the cunning geishas know
of their affect.
Nulla.
A club coming down
towards your head,
and splintering on collision
with your temple.
Untitled (Observation that came out as a poorly structured poem) - Amber T
ReplyDeleteThey're looking at each other.
The two people in the photo.
He looks nonchalant, she looks oblivious.
She looks happy, he looks distant.
Perhaps, if she looked closer,
She would've seen more, feel more, listen more.
She would have heard the words she couldn't hear,
the sights she could not see
the feelings she could not understand.
They're looking at each other.
The two people in the photo.
He looks happy, she looks distant.
A rather experimental work-in-progress; the idea came to me when I was looking at a First Nations sewing project I did in elementary school as part of the special day where we explored Native culture.
ReplyDeleteIt's
An old blanket.
The banquet hall door opens its arms and
Gives an embrace before the dancers
Come, a-swayin' –
Red weaves into Black,
Black twirls over Red,
And White dances above their heads.
There's Raven,
Cackling to no one and anyone
Who'd lend an ear.
Mouth sharp, dress preened and nails in th' air,
It waltzes on the corners of the cloth.
There is no sky.
Only a sea of Black and a field of Red and
White.
All entwine around an' across the swinging Raven,
Like a necklace, a noose,
And then a forlorn – Caw! – as the banquet hall door
Closes its arms.
Wings flap into the cloth but it's not
Flying.
Goodnight, Raven.
Goodnight.
This poem came about while printing out black and white photos for my room—very rough draft, but hey, why not put it here?
ReplyDeleteThe Black and White Effect
Set to black and white:
Make the moment look
Timeless. You don’t even remember
Taking the photograph
With trembling hands and the fear of lightning
Striking the pole near where she stood.
Edit her figure—make her seem less
Blurry than her image reflected her to be.
Focus. You have to focus
The camera, lower your exposure to light
To recognize the distorted smile on her lips.
There stood the girl of your childhood dreams,
Draped in a crimson red cape—she was engulfed by shadows
In black and white, waiting
For a fairytale—for the wolf’s call to send her running
Across those thick patches
Of trees that stood behind her, back to the arms of
The man you called a thief—the villain of your tale.
You wish you had learned earlier not to cry wolf
When the dark presented you a mirror of yourself.
Then, you would have known better
And the girl in the photograph
Wouldn’t need to be a ghost of what if’s
That never were.
Orange peels, orange Crush
ReplyDeleteKetchup, Tabasco,
Last night’s dinner
Crusting on a porcelain china plate
Last week’s kombucha (hiding last month’s)
2 pairs of sizzors (mine and my roomates)
A roll of tape, canary yellow
312 chinese flascards, filled with words I don’t yet know
Tissues covered in lipstick, snot, (sometimes both)
Computer still whirring,
Playing soft piano and loud drums
My desk is as busy as I am
I look
And all I see
Trash trash
Deadline deadline
Time is starting to move a lot faster
ReplyDeleteI can feel myself approaching death
Like looking towards the horizon and knowing there a wolf waiting for you
A little too far to be seen
Sitting right where the world curves
Just patiently anticipating your arrival
His fur is matted in large clumps that make you think of a life hardly lived
or maybe just a hard life
The sun is setting behind the scene
The orange and red hues overcast the line to the edge of the earth
to the edge of my world
But death is waiting under the golden haze
Casting a shadow in your direction
An you are moving closer and closer to it
One foot after another
He's still over the horizon
He's still out of view
But he's waiting