One finger to your lips
One blown kiss, one darting tremor
of light
and a little world is born:-
Imagine this: two things, both true both real
both one in heart:
a little sky of tenderness
a return. Planes doze across the sky, inside he
sits and hardly sits at all. Desperate. Jumping.
A reflection on a lake – so he is above, she reflects below
in a more feminine battle of sorrow
that palpable kind of scheme of things that clenches
the heart. The table, laid, each thing laid out
as though by accident, as though God laid them
there, a thousand years ago… As though she did not care
or had not wasted days, on weeks, on months on years
rearranging, matching up and forming this queer work
of art. So that he may come in, offhand and she may say
‘Good morning’ and perhaps
offer him “a bite to eat. Not much, just thrown together
not much – I know -” And he may be the one to pick up
a pear, an apple
a potato, a tomato – and degrade this thing from what it was
to what she will be now. Bright red bubble bursts,
his teeth
sink in and red veins pulse.
the light will refract wrong and the composition won’t be
so strong, but she wants
(this is what she wants) corruption. Of her definition
new construction.
A sky of tenderness
breaks, planes murmur, her skirt whimpers around strong
dark heels, spears of grass whip wheels hit earth, he hardly sits
an arrow from a quiver he embraces his wife. She looks on
she feels her jacket as these arms, she feels these buttons as the swarm
of human life beside her - he does not see her. Offhand. “Not much.
I know.” Wind whispers, larks choke. Beauty dies, this time
so does a sunset of hope.
Still.
Life goes on, and the second:
imagine this:
sitting, complacent reaching out
she bites into the pear. Blinds close. Light
reacts more normally with gilded pots
and cooking bowls, nothing is lost but the placing of things
and yet
and yet
(veins calm and pale)
A world of beauty sighs and turns
its back on her
regret.
A contest entry
- Response to still life Allpoetry. Sponsored by Winklings. #90. by Lyndon.
6000 points, ended June 26, 2008, 14 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - prewrites by aeolia.
400 points, ended October 26, 2008, 130 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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So wonderfully written. This is amazing and I just adore the imagery you have bestowed upon us with your writing.
I kept seeing love that has gone sour in your poem, I can see that she loves him even though she doesn't feel as if he loves her the same anymore. Going through every day with life's unending complications and routines make it a little harder on her when he doesn't appreciate all that she does for him anymore.
So sad. Great poem!
Keep the ink flowing!
Midnight Raeven -
You have some amazing comments on your poem here, so look to those for a good critique. I'm just happy to have been here, and I'm commenting, though hardly commenting at all.
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beautiful to the last, this is an amazing peice of artistry indeed, i particulary like the emotions used to describe this old black and white style romance, you can really feel the anticipation and hope in this women, well penned poet,
w chai and cookies,
-jas
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This poem seems to be extraordinarily mature and modern.
Your title is also extraordinarily brilliant given the poem that follows and the still life painting prompt.
On the surface, with enviable imagistic control, fresh as one dare imagine, you present the artist/woman's flow of consciousness with the depth of Virginia Woolf or D H Lawrence.
Two realities are deftly drawn. The majority of the poem develops the failure of two souls to connect.
However, the whole of this first part is a metaphor. It is a metaphor of the artist. Longing to be noticed; to have the art work re-arranged; to have it violated; to draw from her anger. Red veins!
But there is nothing but indifference.
"he does not see her. Offhand. “Not much.
I know.” Wind whispers larks choke. Beauty dies, this time ...
So does a sunset of hope".
The major part of the poem develops a human love that is destroyed but it is the appreciation of art that is squirming at a deeper plane in the poem.
And the second reality conjectured?
Here the body of the woman is more relaxed; she is less emotional; resigned: "veins calm and pale".
She does re-arrange things; eats a pear.
But, the art bites back! Quietly.
"A world of beauty sighs and turns
its back on her
Regret."
As for the poetry? Beautiful; controlled.
Qualifications and repetitions wonderfully project the human mind processing thought:
"The table, laid, each thing laid out
As though by accident, as though God laid them
There, a thousand years ago…" and
"nothing is lost but the placing of things
And yet
And yet ...".
For young people who write so-called abstract verse: read this poem three times; read my critique; read the poem once more.
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Thank you so much for your comment! a VERY developed understanding of what i was hoping to convey. Thanks again!
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