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auntie-hosebagPoems
Bernie frames the TV between his feet-- left hand remote, beer bottle balanced by his right— clicks through half-time shows, clicks like shooting a gun, a Fazer, a death-ray secret weapon, clicks just to do it, an idiot’s smile faint on his face. he sees only noise Emma tends her stamps, perched on the plain board chair she upholstered herself— its arms worn, warm, warmly welcoming— her back to her husband, her life as wife and mother coming to a languid close. she tastes some regret-- yet spicy with passion-- where life has had its way with her. The rug’s bright stew of colors can’t hide everything children spilled when they were young-- juices, milk, soup, sauce, tears; little dreams, tiny heartbreaks, minor crises ground into the weave; all the gooey pastries, cookie crumbs, blood and sweat and nightmares congealed into solemn patina-- I see protects it from time. These solid objects— stout, no-nonsense chair wearing gouges, marks, discolorations of use and years like badges; fat, chunky, cigarette-burned BarcaLounger, drunk from drink spilled on every surface, handle supple as a young girl’s wrist, swirling a territorial aura around its microscopic sphere of the universe; and the rug… unassuming, proletarian, handmade and honest, each scrap of fabric chosen by the weaver’s hand, now useful again, reveling in redemption— these solid objects invade, infuse, invigorate otherwise empty space, squeeze meaning from the world around them, same as the hand of the artist sculpts love from her heart to give them life. The children have moved away Old friends are dying every day Stamps no longer can be licked There is no way to interdict The Jets are losing again
0
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 12:13 PM UTC
2 Chairs & a Rug
Bernie frames the TV between his feet-- left hand remote, beer bottle balanced by his right— clicks through half-time shows, clicks like shooting a gun, a Fazer, a death-ray secret weapon, clicks just to do it, an idiot’s smile faint on his face. he sees only noise Emma tends her stamps, perched on the plain board chair she upholstered herself— its arms worn, warm, warmly welcoming— her back to her husband, her life as wife and mother coming to a languid close. she tastes some regret-- yet spicy with passion-- where life has had its way with her. The rug’s bright stew of colors can’t hide everything children spilled when they were young-- juices, milk, soup, sauce, tears; little dreams, tiny heartbreaks, minor crises ground into the weave; all the gooey pastries, cookie crumbs, blood and sweat and nightmares congealed into solemn patina-- I see protects it from time. These solid objects— stout, no-nonsense chair wearing gouges, marks, discolorations of use and years like badges; fat, chunky, cigarette-burned BarcaLounger, drunk from drink spilled on every surface, handle supple as a young girl’s wrist, swirling a territorial aura around its microscopic sphere of the universe; and the rug… unassuming, proletarian, handmade and honest, each scrap of fabric chosen by the weaver’s hand, now useful again, reveling in redemption— these solid objects invade, infuse, invigorate otherwise empty space, squeeze meaning from the world around them, same as the hand of the artist sculpts love from her heart to give them life. The children have moved away Old friends are dying every day Stamps no longer can be licked There is no way to interdict The Jets are losing again
This is an example of ekphrasis (look it up on Wikipedia). The artwork this is drawn from was done by a UAS student--don't know who--and consisted of exactly that: two chairs and a rug, no title, about 1/3 size.
Written by
auntie-hosebag
American
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 12:13 PM UTC
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