artist, moon, poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 35:

Started 1:57pm. In class. Based on ‘Venice, Moonlight’ by Christopher Williams. Finished 2:48pm in class.

Williams, Christopher, 1873-1934; Venice, Moonlight

(Untitled)

Strong arms churn in what

a copper basin can hold,

sloshing coral-colored flesh

into a drum of decay.

Lapping almond-scented slips under a bed of clay,

blackened peonies depart from parched lips.

– Amy Struthers

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artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 34:

February 23rd:

I tried to write a poem in Tim and Ryan’s dorm, but experienced writer’s block.

February 24th:

I stayed up into the wee hours of the morning finally taking the time to relax. It felt nice.

Based on Harry Willson Watrous’s ‘Sophistication’. Started 1:42 pm. My dorm. Finished 2:06.

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Class

A regal spout

as positioned to reflect the visage

of an upturned,

porcelain nose.

In a parlor

where a five-lettered furnace glows,

gardenia-grains shift inside of a milk-white bone.

It’s petticoats worn on a petty evening

and the call of an embroidered egret.

-Amy Struthers

artist, poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 32:

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Started at 11:36am. In my dorm. Based on Erich Heckel’s ‘Windmill, Dangast’. Finished 1:49pm.

Pallet

A tomato paste barn shivers

in a jug of wind

as a bashful beaker

drips cool currants

down its side.

It’s Clyde

in a common setting

forgetting young Dale

and the rattle of nails

sharp enough to silence

planks.

It’s Joseph in the ranks

looking for Lottie in the dirt,

and citrus peeled

in a broom-closet barricade.

-Amy Struthers

artist, poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 31:

Started 6:59 in my dorm. Based on ‘Sad girl’ by Miodrag Miljkovic. Finished 7:30.

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Biography

Rare is the one who bothers to ask a burnout brunette

about her day.

Or why

she has nothing to say

when stories are steaming inside her.

Whether or not her cat kneads the pages that keep her warm

is of little consequence to the crowd.

Whether she’s tired,

her boss doesn’t care.

Whether she’s hungry,

her grocer just shrugs.

Few ask a burnout what’s fair.

Grateful is she for the small treasures-

the old woman who gifts her a cough drop

or the blind boy who laughs she’s ‘sweet’.

It’s a mild progress she calls her joy

and for this, she writes of her victories.

-Amy Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 30:

4:09 pm Sigma lobby. Based on ‘The Singing Butler’ by Jack Vettriano.  Finished 11:12 pm my dorm.

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Gain

At last, I danced with Autumn

on the sands that were our stage,

and branded in Blythe’s bowler

every choler of his wage.

A love that stemmed from thorny brush,

to now, my blushing hue,

clutching to the comfort of a dream that died in dew.

-Amy Struthers

artist, poem, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 29:

February 17th:

Gabe, Ryan, Tim, and myself all meet up in Stewart. Gabe tries to persuade me as to why I shouldn’t leave the university. I didn’t feel up to writing a poem.

February 18th:

Felt like falling asleep in class. I didn’t feel like writing a poem.

February 19th: Fell asleep in the lobby and woke up to get ready for class. Based off J.E.H. MacDonald’s ‘The Tangled Garden’. Started 1:50 pm. 7:00pm.

5.1.5

Johnsy

When paths aren’t all that tangled,
and dreams are spun and cast,
and bushels are as fragrant
as the gardens we have passed,
will you still sing of Behrman,
when you rise to note what’s last?

When some boats aren’t that sturdy
and beaches boast as grand
and hands aren’t all that calloused
by the tilling of the land,
will you still write of playtime when you’ve grown too tired for sand?

-Amy Struthers

artist, poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 26:

gus-eagleton-2015-exhale-brisbane

Based on Gus Eagleton’s ‘Exhale/Inhale’.
Started 2:34pm. My dorm. Ended: 11:46pm.

Fences

Borders are like bike-locked beaks
screeching for a key in suffocating song.

They’re trees
in plastic planters
spotting images of fading sequoias
and spines
to loose-leafed papers
that capture catfish gliding
in a travel-sized ocean.

It’s lotion
on the landing
and the branding
of a cold sweat.
And paint on the planks where
the city flashes in lights.

-Amy Struthers