artist, Picasso, poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 37:

Started 8:14. Based on Pablo Picasso’s ‘Famille d’Arlequin’. Finished 8:52 my dorm.

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Glass in an Armory

An oblong looking glass

as cast into an armory,

grasps for a frame’s edge

reserved for fleur-de-lis firearms.

The charms

as welded by breaking men

fire to aim their ambitions into

mirrors of soldered stability.

May no customer note the fragility

of the hands that uphold the quivering shards,

and yards littered with broken blankets.

-Amy Struthers

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artist, poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 36:

Based on Paul Delaroche’s ‘ ‘The Execution of Lady Jane Grey’.

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Started 1:16pm in the school cafeteria. Finished 9:09pm my dorm.

Stable

I imagine the Savior of the world,

when in seeing the hands of our lowly estate

position lambs such as Jane for the slaughter,

so mourns the suffering of a daughter

whose blood will be spilt upon a tilted altar

and served in a court without justice.

To she who bleats Luke

into a cave of wool-spun wolves

anticipating release from the harbinger of husbandry,

may the echo of a goat named Guildford remind her the last laugh

does not end with a blade.

He who entered into the stable by such humble means

must now return to the cart that welcomed him,

dragging in the dirt behind

pungent tears

that blot the trails leading to and away from their perverted pens.

Now and again,

pigs trod over the selfsame hay as to sniff

the bed their snouts fail to detect once

held a head of iron cast.

-Amy Struthers

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

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