artist, poetry, prose, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 22:

February 12th: 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.

-A. Struthers

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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: 

Poem absent.

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.”

-A. 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?

-A. 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.

-A. Struthers

artist, diary, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 10:

3.-A-Parrot-for-Juan-Gris_Cornell-720x1052.jpg

January 31st: (A response to Cornell’s: A Parrot for Juan Gris). Started: roughly 8:11. Finished roughly 8:55. In my dorm.)

For Juan

Who said that parrots were pretenders
or that this world smiled when he did?

You…
custard-lipped Bramante,
perched on your notions of ‘would’,
when will you learn
that digging your maltodextrined talons into
the of mutability of man
will only give rise to a cake of stares?

Who cares,
that you of all people
help the apprentice see potential in parchment
and that by brandishing your beak on what’s finished
you crack the case of constriction?

I do.
That’s who.

-A. Struthers

artist, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 8:

peeterscheesesalmondspretzels.jpg

January 29th: Based on Clara Peeter’s ‘Still Life with Cheeses’. In my dorm. 5:23. 5:42.

Served

No lust was dished for dinner,
no blood was boiled to rise,
no goblets gushed of gluttony,
no lettuce leaked of lies.

No I, me, or my in the humble pie,
just tables served in kind,
nourishing the flourishing of
plates prepared in mind.

-A. Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 7:

cactusgirl

Based on a design by Vera Brosgol.

Pear, the prickly peasant girl
on a quest to test her love,
combed the caves and rode the waves
she shook while wearing glove.

Alas, her tale is tragic in the sense her pointed hands
couldn’t brave the tether of the weather’s harsh demands.
As Pearl so speared a town in which the locals were balloons
and happened to so blind a man their clan had named Magoons,
she ended up as shipwrecked,
and then, a peasant queen
disguised as a poor beggar
so she wouldn’t make a scene.

How slippery a slip-up,
when Pear before the king
speared him with the finger on which
he had cast a ring.

Though he was quite put off by pain,
old memories surged back in
as sharp as they were ever
for the harp that was his Pin.

Oh, how the king was smitten, by the point that Pear did prove
that both now sail the continents with confidence in groove.

-A. Struthers