A life model
stands bare at the core
of an easel mantle.
She wears her skin
like a flattering summer dress
and I wonder
if she even knows
she's naked.
I transfer her body
to paper
in a hundred charcoal swirls,
suspended evermore
in a breath of smoke.
My teacher says
my style suits me,
and I suspect he's right.
*They're alive,
and full of vitality*
he tells me,
comparing them to my other,
more refined drawings
and I feel myself
wanting to cry.
I try
to refine my life,
and myself,
as I do my models.
To be contoured
and controlled.
To be precise
and safe
as geometry.
I unfold beneath the frustration
of my clumsy form.
My hands cannot obey
to a command
my heart does not give.
But my heart commands acceptance,
and who am I to deny?
So I must abide,
and learn
to wear my messy heart
like a flattering summer dress
rippling in winters gale.
Sewing buttercups
into a storm.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 11:48 PM UTC
A life model
stands bare at the core
of an easel mantle.
She wears her skin
like a flattering summer dress
and I wonder
if she even knows
she's naked.
I transfer her body
to paper
in a hundred charcoal swirls,
suspended evermore
in a breath of smoke.
My teacher says
my style suits me,
and I suspect he's right.
*They're alive,
and full of vitality*
he tells me,
comparing them to my other,
more refined drawings
and I feel myself
wanting to cry.
I try
to refine my life,
and myself,
as I do my models.
To be contoured
and controlled.
To be precise
and safe
as geometry.
I unfold beneath the frustration
of my clumsy form.
My hands cannot obey
to a command
my heart does not give.
But my heart commands acceptance,
and who am I to deny?
So I must abide,
and learn
to wear my messy heart
like a flattering summer dress
rippling in winters gale.
Sewing buttercups
into a storm.
