artist, poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 36:

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

N-1909-00-000087-wpu

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.

-A. Struthers

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artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 24:

Started: 7:34pm. Finished: 7:52pm My dorm. Based on Cassius Marcellus Coolidge’s A Bachelor’s Dog.

a_bachelors_dog

(Untitled)

Luxury-

that six-lettered lap dog

he sells with a smile

can only afford

a rolled-over belly.

Barking at the telly,

he spits a tooth-marked chimney to the side

and fills his lungs with smoking cash.

With beer on the burner,

Turner churns in the distance.

-A. Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 19:

Based on La Rêverie by Renoir.

7_Jeanne Samary in a low necked dress 1877-1.jpg

Jeanne

Who would believe that dew drops could birth dimples
or that the hope of spring
could stir the lily that is
my daughter?
The water
to a forget-me-not field,
reaching towards the sun, with the gleam of its warmth in her eyes.
My surprise,
when in seasons I carried her smile-
her rose-kissed cheeks and leafing limbs,
bearing a name
that means ‘God is gracious’
and kissed my head with the favor of a love I learned.
Before Jeanne, I burned
in the garden where now, I raise rosalias.

-A. Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 6:

the-star.jpg

Based on ‘L’Etoile’ by Edgar Degas. Started: 11:15. Finished: 11:59. In my dorm.

Point

Is this how the bird feels when, in being released from its cage
it staggers onto a sunrise stage,
and notes
the change of pace
that startles at the flurry of hands reminding it of forgetful wings?

The bird that sings
of gentility
despite the seasons
and rejoices
in the sensation of flight.
Why stop
when the very flutter of your wings
and song in your step
reminds men that no bar can break you?

-A. Struthers

artist, faith, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 4:

Mercy_Poynter-1.jpg

January 25th, 2019: *I awaken from my slumber earlier than 1:27am, but it is by this time I begin typing. I am compelled to write a poem about God’s goodness.* (Inspired by a sketch of The Prodigal’s Return by Sir Edward John Poynter) Finished at 2:32 am.

Into your arms,
I return,
confessing with a heaving heart
and cleaving to your familiar robes
to stanch the wounds I accrued
by pursuing a blind ambition I’d called sight.
How humbling to know it is you who are right
and I am in need of nourishment.
What encouragement,
to see
you
who love the unloveable
and call me
your offspring
as if such a thing
brings you no shame.
In a world so quick to note faults,
you waltz
with my breaking body
and guide my seeking soul.

You, who warn and warm me,
and light my wintered life,
when unteachable is I all hear,
how I never dreamed
for one as beautiful as you
to gaze upon my wantonness
and weave the words that are your hand on my heart.

-A. Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 3:

Inspired by (pictured image): Double portrait of Marie Krøyer and P.S. Krøyer. The couple portrayed one another (1890).

January 24th, 2019.

Dobbeltportræt_af_Marie_og_P.S._Krøyer.jpg

Rib

With the working of two hands
we note
one rib
as she pecks the cage of canvas
so that others might stitch a coat
from the flakes of our fallen fibres.

Frustrated over a form her hand cannot fashion
what passion
guides these fumbling fingers
to linger
on the lips of my love?

Whose palette
reminds her of our fuse,
and the wash of favor,
when God smiled on twos.

We scrimmage.
I, with my quarrel-born locks
and you, with sensibility,
senselessly tied to details
that fail our Eden eyes.

-A. Struthers