This week I managed to pen out four poems instead of three. New record!
Each of the four poems that I wrote, have this symbolic connection to paint. A beautiful connection. It is this bridge that allows people to cross from the present into the past. It lets them see a time they may not have lived through. It can bring them a glimpse of the past, where their ancestors stayed in time.
This bridge it can reflect the sides of pop culture, by showing what was big during certain eras. It shows the ever changing style of the past and compares it to the present. Paint tells a story. Look at a painted wall and it can tell you a story you never would have knew.
My poems this week are: Taste of Life, Feral Time, Canvas Face, On the Wall.
Taste of Life, is a poem to describe life as a hopeless pit. It uses paint as a symbol for the leaving of one’s happiness due to failure, and how fast it can happen. The poem resolves by offering the hope of reaching happiness.
Feral Time, is probably my favorite. In the poem is the reference to popular culture, and to the changing of times. It sort of entails the aging of a person and how paint served as the symbol for time. Paint became the indicator when things changed and the drastic point to which they did.
Canvas Face, is a poem about makeup. Ladies rejoice, here ya go. Doing makeup is the painting of the face. The face is art, and foundation is the lucky paint.
On the Wall, is a story that could tell itself. In this poem story, the paint becomes a villain.
Paint is often over looked. There’s a lot of symbolism that it holds. Often times it is over looked for the simple fact that it is in all of our lives in some way. It’s inanimate. It’s just paint. But is it really? When you throw paint into words as a symbol, things really begin to get interesting.
Think of it no more than it is. Paint, a lacquer that comes in all colors and many different consistencies. It is meant to cover something a wall, a canvas, someone’s face, clothing, any number of things. Most importantly it is meant to make something new out of something that has already been there.
Painting is doing makeup every morning. The face, it becomes something new. An alter person.
Plowing a field, turning the grass brown and spreading it smooth. It is an earth painting.
Paint is simply a new beginning.
Add personification to that and the tales of where paint runs, are endless to the imagination.
This week has been busy. Exceptionally busy. Busy enough that I shouldn’t be sitting at the computer writing this right now but oh well.
Honestly if I wasn’t busy I don’t think I would be able to survive. It’s how I’m wired. Anyway, because of this weeks schedule I felt the need to take some much needed winding down time.
I did that by using my theme exercise with this week’s chosen topic of paint. I wrote two poems. If it wasn’t the most relaxing thing I’ve ever done I don’t know what was. The words they came so quick, it was like I was painting a picture.
It’s amazing how poetry, or just writing in general can make one feel so alive.
Times like these are why I do what I do. There is no other experience like it.
It was a tough decision trying to decide what theme to pick this week.
Ultimately I gave up on the hope of thinking of something.
Later it involved glancing at a garage of peeling paint and exclaiming to the neighborhood birds “I got it! I got it!”
Odd is good, as paint is good and odd.
Now they’re dead.
This poem is called Whisper Killings. I published this in a previous post, but I love this poem. I wrote this to directly cull what I see in a whispers theme.
Note: Also if you look at the poem sideways it looks like a sound wave sort of. This is a creative way of providing a deeper meaning to the poem. Think of the poem like a whisper, the levels highest are where it peaks your interest. The lowest means you probably should run for your life.
Edging the wind.
Spilt from the mind,
Doused in fruitless routine.
Giants in frequent darkness.
A forest scene,
In typical reprise.
Day becomes night,
Figures become shadows.
Until shadows scream.
At dawn a body,
Is subjected to whispers.
And now they don’t.