Art Walk last Friday. Went into this gallery just to look around. Lots of hand painted art work by kids lining the walls. Silly fun, but very inspiring. A young woman sitting on a couch asked if I would like her to write a poem for me. I was delighted! But I stipulated that I would have to write one for her too. So, I gave her a word: nothingness. She gave me a word: Silhouette. She wrote hers in about 5 minutes, and I got stuck! Couldn't come up with anything. But I told her I'd work on it and send it to her, and I did. What I didn't tell her was that I didn't want to write a poem for her right then and there because:
1. My handwriting really sucks, and
2. I didn't know how to spell Silhouette!
So, I went home and for the life of me could not come up with anything until I looked at the card she had put her poem on. I didn't read the card, I just looked at the cover which was a Curious George Christmas card. It had George head standing on a Christmas package juggling Christmas balls! With that and a bit of a lively debate online about Beckett's writing style (whether he was as great a writer as Shakespeare. Ha! Of course he was!) I had my poem!
before the stripping off of shoes and socks,
a glass of wine some shredded cheese
to loosen up the mind, the soul—well,
that is to say, if such a fragile thing
as a human soul does exist.
with blood black strokes
from a nondescript ballpoint pen.
Short, tight lines appear on
the white flesh of a corpsed tree.
scars its way across the unblemished face
of what was once a living, breathing thing
halting only now and then and long enough
to wipe away a small bead of creative sweat
that has forced her eyes up to the shadowy ceiling
where wordless spiders are busy weaving
their own strange, distorted version of reality.
getting no closer to the artist’s work
than flirting with the humorous card
bright colored Christmas balls
with its hairy, misshapen legs.
at the Oklahoma zoo.
Woodie 11-14-15
1. My handwriting really sucks, and
2. I didn't know how to spell Silhouette!
So, I went home and for the life of me could not come up with anything until I looked at the card she had put her poem on. I didn't read the card, I just looked at the cover which was a Curious George Christmas card. It had George head standing on a Christmas package juggling Christmas balls! With that and a bit of a lively debate online about Beckett's writing style (whether he was as great a writer as Shakespeare. Ha! Of course he was!) I had my poem!
Silhouette
Beckett
had his way with words.
Perhaps
a cigarette or two before,before the stripping off of shoes and socks,
a glass of wine some shredded cheese
to loosen up the mind, the soul—well,
that is to say, if such a fragile thing
as a human soul does exist.
She’s
a Frankenstein, a creator
of
silhouettes sewn togetherwith blood black strokes
from a nondescript ballpoint pen.
Short, tight lines appear on
the white flesh of a corpsed tree.
Her
fingers have a surgical mind
a ready,
steady slicing motion thatscars its way across the unblemished face
of what was once a living, breathing thing
halting only now and then and long enough
to wipe away a small bead of creative sweat
that has forced her eyes up to the shadowy ceiling
where wordless spiders are busy weaving
their own strange, distorted version of reality.
I
won't read her poem tonight.
Perhaps,
I’ll never read it at all,getting no closer to the artist’s work
than flirting with the humorous card
it
was written on. A cute little monkey
Standing
on his head juggling bright colored Christmas balls
with its hairy, misshapen legs.
I
don’t fancy monkeys much
not
since that unfortunate incident at the Oklahoma zoo.
Woodie 11-14-15
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