Tuesday, August 24, 2010

The Painter

Here is a new poem. It's about art, and being an artist. Thanks goes out to IB English for opening my mind to a world of poems about poems and poets. Jolly good, enjoy.

"The Painter"

Each strand and
every sinew within
creaks and stretches so
deliberately as she gently
tickles the canvas with
her horsehair hands
immersed with emotion.

She steers strokes elegantly and
tiny little tracks bloom,
leaving behind bits
of color, fractions of flavor resting
contently atop the cloth.

All of her body's breath rushes
to her extremities as to not
limit her limbs while she slowly
extracts ideas from her
mind and pours them out onto the
canvas, gracefully charting the atlas
to her subconscious, like
Freud and Magellan would have.

She takes a  step back.
Cocks her head to the right; a chicken
observing a washing machine;
a frustrated sigh and a new canvas
are the fruits.

From the gallery,
all admire her failed
attempts.

ED

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