Thankyou, Rick, for letting people like me scribble about your paintings.
It is slightly embarrassing to confess that today when I started on my morning writing, a poem came out instead of the usual prose. I could not stop it or change it, it came and insisted on staying.
I am posting it here. My request to you Rick.(..er..I am not sure it is not asking for too much) is to draw me a sketch or painting based on it. I can see it in my mind’s eye, but since I am no artist, I cannot paint. If you have the time, and if you can see into the poem, can you draw out an image for me?
I do not know any other artists on the blogosphere, but would be quite happy if any one else takes up the poem. Ouch…this is embarrassing. Out with the poem now.
I call my poem “In passing”
The sky outside is clear, cloudless, precise.
Much like the dying thoughts, perhaps,
of the young sailor before he died
or like his pale brow as he was lashed ashore.
The street lamps stand tall, dark in the bright sunlight.
The road is clean, stark, shining, solemnly awaiting
the funeral march heard, but not seen, down the valley.
The road echoing the mourning wail
across the alleys and across the hills
that are ponderous, transfixed.
The hills, mute in thought for years, beyond memory or reckon.
Waiting for the end, which though now far shall surely
draw close some bright low noon in amorous March
when the earth shall tremble and call death to herself.
For now, the tender breeze would cool the salted necks
of the pall-bearers that stumble up the cobbled path
to carry the sailor for his final rest.
The burial done, they will troop
to the bereaved house, to the mourning widow,
and the mother driven mad with grief.
They will drink, and talk of death and dying.
Soon the ale and beer and the salted meat
will soothe and the talk shall turn
as they eat, to the year’s fishing,
to the coming polls for the council.
Even the widow will breathe
between her tears, ask for her child,
and feed him on a bosom still heaving
with sobs every now and then.