That Which You Seek

Within the fortress,
Hidden by sarcastic turrets
Pithy cannons
And cold steel doors;
Behind trip-lines
Landmines
And razor-wire
Is a box
Hardly worth the adventure --
For cradled inside
Is a small china cup,
Handle off and chip in rim;
But looking past the cracked glaze
You might see
That the hands which painted its flowers
Were delicate
And kind.

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We do a lot to hide ourselves. There are all kinds of barriers to be overcome if you're really going to get to know and love another person. Sometimes the walls are higher because that person doesn't see his/her own worth. The right determination can get past the obstacles, but it sometimes takes special sight to be able to find the true value of a soul.

Fast food

Blowsy blown rose
China tints of blush and pale
One seeks reward in the sun-stroked core
Yellow for yellow
Pitch rising in relief
This her only want
Rapture in fulfillment

Ecstasy misses the quiet one
Pink and white brooch
on pink and white shoulder
Arms spread in silent welcome
Calm
Patient
Waiting consummation

No jarring chord or melodrama
Slight struggle
Hardly noticed
Soon ended
This her only want
Life giving life
And the wrapper discarded

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The first time I gave this to someone to read I was more than a little startled by the interpretation I got back. Startled, that is, until I realised that she had no idea what it was about.

Not surprising, really. Not everyone's the spider nerd that I am.

Now that I've said spider, would you like to go back and read it again?

Yep, it's about a spider. A crab spider, or more specifically a Goldenrod Spider. They can change their colours somewhat to better camouflage in whatever flower they're using at the time.

Pink and white brooch (spider) on pink and white shoulder (rose). Catching a bee.




And amazingly enough, this is a poem I can still go back and read without cringing. For me, that's saying something.

Strawberry leaves in graphite

I started this runner study in the field and finished it up in the office.

And, if I remember correctly, sprayed with hairspray because I didn't have any fixative with me.

You do what you have to.

High bush-cranberry in watercolour pencil

This was a quick sketch out in the field, and it's long ago enough now that I can't remember exactly why I was sketching with watercolour pencils out in the field.

It's also long ago enough that I don't really have anything in the way of explanation or analysis.

'Nuff said then.

African violets in crayon

Not much to say about this, because I honestly don't remember drawing it.

Oh, and I think it looks a lot like wrapping paper.

Weird.

Myopia

And when I painted the trees
You stood behind me and admired the unclear strokes,
The quivering blend of black and green.
You beamed at the audacity
And told me you could even hear
The madcap panic of those leaves
Awaiting summer storm.
I was confused
(For I had only sketched out what was there)
But then
I thought about my second eyes
And wiped the streaks
That took the clarity away...
It made me smile
To think I'd found what you could never know:
The thing that you'd mistaken
For my Art
Was nothing more
Than accidental lack of sight.

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I really hate smug critics, and I hate being told what art is about.

There are a few things touched on here: selective sight in those "in the know" (how many times do they see what they want to see?), the misunderstanding or misreading of intention, the way our personal vision can't help but affect what we create... and, of course, a little bit of weirdness.

I mean, let's be honest. Haven't you ever seen a work of "art" that you could swear was made by a person who just needed to clean her glasses?

Papaver

From a distance orange and yellow float on air,
Magic cups playing at UFOs.
A sudden breeze sets them a-dance
And you see they are balloons,
Hairy green strings tying them to scrubby green leaves.
Astounding that thin, weak stems
Can hold blossoms oh so proudly to the sky...
What cheek to offer up such glaring gifts, my friends,
While all your neighbours still struggle to escape their winter greys.

You were given leave to be here years ago,
Young fingers clutching tiny seeds in new delight at playing god
And laughing in amazement when you peeked out from your bristled hoods.
But now, if wild is to be free of care,
You are free...
And if you choose to spread yourselves
In weedy pleasure 'round the yard,
Those who remember your small beginnings
Applaud your strength, and only forbid
Your claim of the pea patch.

All else is yours.
Yes, even in your drab September --
For as long as you can wave to me in May
That glorious, shining shock of orange-gold
The child can still see chubby hands that brought you here
And bend to see the sun at heart that always brings you back.

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Mom let me plant Icelandic Poppies in the yard when I was little. All these years later they're weeds, but they're one of my favourite flowers in the spring anyway. Dad's learned to put up with my thing for poppies and is good about leaving me a patch even now.

Not exactly the poppy one thinks about on Remembrance Day, true, but I still like the poem.