Poetry and Such
I guess I am still teachable.Thanks to my adventures with a small group of creatives taking on "The Artist's Way," I've allowed myself to play in mediums other than the printed word. I bought myself a tablet of paper and a cheap set of watercolors and had fun. If only I could remember this freedom in writing, too.
These remind me of Japanese paintings from the 50's. Beautiful.
jane, i sweetly smile toward you. all over the page. one way or another. all over the page.just come. spread yourself like colour. like butter. let it get on my chin. you're beautiful. your words, your brush, they're only there waiting for you to release them.pull back the lid. there is only containment to fear.xoerin
for you,i'll post in a day or two:i saw her walking briskly this morningher roseate skirt cutting the back of her leglike flowers thumping in a breezelike a child saying, mama, i'm hereand again in the afternoonstern about the tractorhis shoulders tightand his eyes looked onto the bales of hayhe hadn't bound yeti smile sweetly toward themthey are all over the pageher skirt like Japanese paperit's edge like vines climbing, rose trellisscent as sure as sex and summerand he like the scrotumin the pig farmer's handstelling the weatherthey're bleeding on the pagelet it happengive it to my chin like butterthey are beautifulit's all over themunwashablewaiting to be released there is only containment to fear.xoerin
oops, locked onto, and scrotum/intestinesxoerin
Yes! Let's dabble in watercolors and then...Writing has its own hues.
Sweet Jesus, Erin, you have no idea what your words mean to me, or do you? I grew up on a farm, of course. My father was a pig farmer for a long time. I loved the piglets and set a small stool in their barn to sing to them as they ran blissfully in the shit under the granary. But Animal Husbandry is cruel. So much must happen to the animals to make them fit for market, for our use. I would hold the young male piglets, so pink, and warm, by their hind legs, while my dad took a single edge razor and sliced them open, feeding their small testicles to the waiting cats. How they did not come to me after that, how they ran screaming away. I so admire those strong farm girls at the fair who raise that prize winning steer or barrow who is auctioned off to a grocer to be butchered. They know the score. I want to know what their diaries hold.Thank you so much for your words. They are a sweet balm.
jane, how odd and wonderful that two artists were born and me unknowing, you and your father. at my daughter's soccer game last night there was a girl, tall and forceful in her way, knee pads on and her hair pulled back in a farm girl headscarf. i watched her. i knew she must have smelled fine. i knew there was a softness to her. the boys acquiesced to her when she moved toward the ball and then they almost clapped her back as though she were one of them after she made her moves - but not quite. i wished i could have relived my youth as her, as you say, knowing the score, and yet being woman.thank you for receiving this bit of a poem.i want to say i'm sorry the pigs grew afraid but it's not quite sorry but rather it is something more like, i see you.xoerin