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.
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.
i saw her walking briskly this morning her roseate skirt cutting the back of her leg like flowers thumping in a breeze like a child saying, mama, i'm here and again in the afternoon stern about the tractor his shoulders tight and his eyes looked onto the bales of hay he hadn't bound yet
i smile sweetly toward them they are all over the page her skirt like Japanese paper it's edge like vines climbing, rose trellis scent as sure as sex and summer and he like the scrotum in the pig farmer's hands telling the weather they're bleeding on the page let it happen give it to my chin like butter they are beautiful it's all over them unwashable waiting to be released
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.
I guess I am still teachable.
ReplyDeleteThanks 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.
ReplyDeletejane, i sweetly smile toward you. all over the page. one way or another. all over the page.
ReplyDeletejust 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.
xo
erin
for you,
ReplyDeletei'll post in a day or two:
i saw her walking briskly this morning
her roseate skirt cutting the back of her leg
like flowers thumping in a breeze
like a child saying, mama, i'm here
and again in the afternoon
stern about the tractor
his shoulders tight
and his eyes looked onto the bales of hay
he hadn't bound yet
i smile sweetly toward them
they are all over the page
her skirt like Japanese paper
it's edge like vines climbing, rose trellis
scent as sure as sex and summer
and he like the scrotum
in the pig farmer's hands
telling the weather
they're bleeding on the page
let it happen
give it to my chin like butter
they are beautiful
it's all over them
unwashable
waiting to be released
there is only containment to fear.
xo
erin
oops, locked onto, and scrotum/intestines
ReplyDeletexo
erin
Yes! Let's dabble in watercolors and then...
ReplyDeleteWriting 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.
ReplyDeleteI 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.
ReplyDeleteat 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.
xo
erin