poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

How Grand This Vision

How grand this vision of the mind
that pesters for a place
and lands in blind men’s buckets
as the stems that form his base.

How grand the height of humble hues-
the youth of blazing sun,
the portrait grazing purples,
and the beryl beads that run.

How grand the reach of failure
as the hands of watches slow
and pause on parted petals
in the fields where seconds glow.

– Amy Struthers

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artist, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 2

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January 23rd: *I return from having a conversation with Devin in Commons (roughly 12:00am). (Finished near 1:10am in the morning.) Inspired by Alice Neel’s ‘Nadya and the Wolf’.

Would

Here, by the would of the hatch marked trees
near the rippled roots and the stippled bees
stands a watchman’s wolf near a muted maid
making sense of grief in a griefless glade.

In a haze of dun, her limbs fall still
as if to bend to the scend of chill.
Tracing states of mind on a slate of clay
the days discard while the potters play.

But what’s to make of a bottled year?
When hope is hung on a timeless tear?
That recalls the day when the lover leapt
from the sap-spun seat of the promise kept?

-Amy Struthers

-Image: Alice Neel’s ‘Nadya and the Wolf’ (1931)-

artist, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 1:

dante_gabriel_rossetti_-_proserpine_-_google_art_project

January 22nd: *I awaken from my slumber with a loose line in my head. As my mind seeks to attach it to some narrative, I recall Rossetti’s ‘Proserpine’ and take to typing this poem roughly near 5:20am in the morning* (Finished around 6:55am).

Proserpine

An empty incense burns beside
anemones upturned
and beckons for the beauty
in the alms that were adjourned.

Bequeathed to Death, as if to Life,
the curse of Myrrha holds
the remnants of remembrance
by the seed that stains her folds.

An alabaster artifice
is all that’s left of love-
A portrait of the daughter,
none would slaughter twice the dove.

-Amy Struthers

-Image: Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s ‘Proserpine’ (1874)-

poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

A poem a day

Dear lovelies,

Something unexpected bloomed, which is to say, that while I did not anticipate its arrival, does not mean its root was not fated to be plucked.

Fortunately, I am blessed to be taking a class in which writers will be working alongside artists. In that selfsame class, we are to make restrictions for ourselves in which we might produce a body of work worth saving from the burn-heap.

I will be writing a poem a day, in rhyme, every day until the end of the semester, that is directly inspired by a work of art. As a poet, I will be cataloguing my journey- from the moment the idea is typed, to the time I dust my palms and back away from my keyboard. You will see the conditions behind these works as well as the odd habits I keep. These posts will be differentiated as Diary posts and will be left as-is, unless I choose to revise them in the future. In many ways, it’s Julie & Julia but with words as the main course.

As an artist, I’d be lying if I didn’t state the idea of keeping to routine doesn’t oppress me in some way. How might limitations with someone as poetically wild as a ferrel cat end well and birth anything worth reading? Even further, how might someone so petrified by structure agree to turn out a consistent body of work? I don’t know. We’ll see. I’ll learn. It’s as frightening and intriguing as a concept for you as it is for me.

-Amy

 

poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Ophelia

Leaf oh leaf, of fleeting grief,

where will you fall tomorrow?

When once your vein laps up the rain

so soon will flit your sorrow.

 

Bee oh bee, of majesty

where will you rest your crown?

When once the springs supplant your wings,

so soon will wilt your gown.

 

Gannet, oh dear gannet flock,

when will the wind recall?

The sonnet of your ecstasy

embedded in your squall?

-Amy Struthers

poetry, prose, rhyme, shakespeare, Uncategorized, war

The War of Rhyme and Prose

The Montagues and Capulets is a tale of tragic throes,

yet nothing half as hapless as the war of Rhyme and Prose.

Its fragments seem to tell the tale of rhythms crossing stars,

that happened by their fervor to foment familial bars.

Good Rhyme when met by pretense, in the riddle that was Prose

skipped her mental pitter at the flitter of his flows.

And in seeing Rhyme had rhythm, Old Prose fell off his feet

and said without her reason that his life was ne’er complete.

The two did meet in secret, for none could bear the shame

of mixing up the metre with the measure of their name.

Faint ‘Iamb Yours’ were muttered by the flutter of the page

which escalated friction in prediction of the phage.

When word broke out they wronged their tome, the two were told to part

and ushered from their opus into isotropous art.

The weight of all the fighting by the pen that was their sword

severed ink, as Prose did drink, the critic of his chord.

Good Rhyme was soon beside herself, for depth that did depart

and sung, though so inside herself, of how her beat had heart.

Each age has seen its liking,

though in form, some do detest

the pairing of a dactyl with a tactile anapest.

The moral of this war of words

is that their feud found way

to mystify the masses in dividing present day.

The only hope we have to end the war of Rhyme and Prose

is not to feed the fodder to the slaughter of the close.

If, perchance, we’re lucky,

such words will find a way,

to heal the strains of sorrow

in the sonnets that we play.

-Amy Struthers