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

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artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 23:

Started 8:47pm/9:51pm finished. Tim and Ryan’s dorm. Tim gets upset with my first draft and tells me that I’m selling myself short/need to keep working on it. Based on Caspar David Friedrich’s ‘Wanderer above the Sea of Fog’.

Caspar_David_Friedrich_-_Wanderer_above_the_sea_of_fog

Drift

Is this the way the world is?

A slow sail onward

or a deep breath in?

A cloth fin

to the side

of a wide

wind compassing home

or the froth of forgetfulness blurring into

an amber horizon?

-Amy Struthers

artist, poetry, prose, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 22:

February 12th: Woke up early and messaged Alex/watched Chuck Palahniuk interviews. Spent a good portion of the day communicating with Micah. Later in the evening, Gabe and I get Olive Garden. When we return, we’re set to watch t.v. together, but I remember I have a poem to complete and need to answer groupchat. I tell him he has to wait. Started 9:08pm. Finished 10:42pm. (Based on Joseph Christian Leyendecker’s painting ’The Violinist and His Assistant’).

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Moonlight on 7th

Who could imagine a tree 

singing of heaven 

in an uprooted forest

or the Actaeon of ambition 

daring to quench his thirst 

with a sonata

that waltzes on glass?

 

Here

stir the sonnets of broken bars

and the metronomed soles

downing the beats  

they call 

ichor. 

 

Tossing peanuts into caps, 

a sleight of hand,

sprouts diamonds from the waterlogged wells

and in a misguided hope, spares a penny for good luck.

 

In a city that’s forgotten its core,

what’s to make of the hollow, 

in which the hair of Pegasus still sounds?

 

Grazing the grounds,

the stag strings his bow with a quivering arrow.

His marrow?

The moonlight.

-Amy Struthers

poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 18:

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February 8th: 6:49am- based on Hector McDonnell’s ‘Temple of the Winds, Mount Stewart’. 7:16am. My dorm.

 

A Room With No View

In a room with no view,

what is there to see,

when elision of vision

forgets what is free?

For if it is free,

what is it that binds

my stare to this square

so bedecked with these blinds?

A pane of the glass through which life is beheld

distances death in the lies that we weld.

For if it is death,

why do I grab grout

to somehow turn in,

what I wish to keep out?

-Amy Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 17:

Diary entries 14, 15, & 16- ABSENT.

February 4th and 5th: 

I decide against writing a poem due to sickness.

February 6th: 

Long day. Tired, but stayed up for a student’s Venmo purchase. Was informed my friends plan to execute an intervention against my wishes-apparently a plan to stay single is a bad thing. Decided to play Halo against my better judgment and got motion sickness. I request to pick up my headphones from Ryan- turns out he created a timed scavenger hunt for me. I made the mistake of leaving my headphones in his truck and he created a series of riddles as to teach me a lesson. I put off a poem because I’m not in the mood to create. Already wrote a poem for the Van Gogh project. Just want sleep.

February 7th: 5:36pm in my dorm- Based on Van Gogh’s ‘A Pair of Wooden Shoes’. 10:54pm. My dorm.

a_pair_of_wooden_shoes

Sole

I asked of the cobbler,

“Is it possible to craft a soleless shoe?”

 

to which he replied,

“You’re a thing of possibility

as tied to a body that carries.

Who bleeds what is not red

and sleeps on that which is not his head?

You ask me if it is possible to craft a soleless shoe,

and I reply, you’ve yet to walk a mile in mine.

Like wine,

you must adjust to this skin.”

-Amy Struthers

poetry, prose, Uncategorized, Van Gogh

L’Arlésienne

L’Arlésienne

I gaze upon the Madame
so long as admiration permits,
hoping by a small chance,
she may take note of my heart-like hands
and steady the beating of my banal brush.

This mystery, who mutes my madness
and tames the tenebrific chuckles of a feverish mind.
Imagine how richly I could paint the heavens,
if one such as her was my wind?

She, who of all women born
understands me most and yet, least of all-
a candle in my coffin
and the pull of a muffled bell.

I love the Madame as intended
which is to say,
she is too heavenly for me to wish earth upon her.

She is time outside of time,
and the kiss of an angel who smiled.
Who am I to defile this gift that was meant for the world and not me?

-Amy Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 13:

51061450_1980932781962335_3310929871181447168_o.jpg

February 2nd:

Diary 12 entry ABSENT. I wasn’t feeling well and decided against writing a poem.

February 3rd:

Still feeling under the weather. Treated cold naturally and am seeing progress. Just need a bit of eucalyptus and vitamin C. 1:17 is when I look at the clock. I forgot to jot down the time before. It’s 1:55 now and I’m in my dorm. The poem is based off an earlier poem I abandoned for revision and my present viewing of Thomas Cooper Gotch’s ‘The Child in the World’.

Through the Eyes of a Child

Life should be lived through the eyes of a child,

whose hands are the claws in the jaws of the wild

and the breath of fresh air in the fog some forget

as they graze by the glass of the age that’s inset.

Life, to a child, rings as gorgeous and grand,

as each reach for creations in stations of sand.

And for a time, when there’s wonder in moons,

they’ll drink up the stars by the jars of their dunes.

Through the eyes of a child, there exists no such greed-

no I, me, or my, in a world full of need.

They acquire what we teach,

yes, the eyes watch us all

to then parrot our beauty and social withdrawal.

While they bloom in a pot, who will plant what they give

to teach the lost child how the wild could be lived?

Would we rather see roses adorning the street

or thorns over sidewalks, exhausted from heat?

You who bear eyes hold the key to their fate.

Yes, you sing the songs to the children who wait.

-Amy Struthers