artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 6:


I head over to Ryan and Tim’s room to hang out. When I return, I take to writing in my dorm.

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


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 its 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?

-Amy Struthers

artist, faith, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 4:


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
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.

-Amy 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).

(Started approx. 2:55 pm) Finished around 3:50 pm. In my dorm. Sigma.) January 24th, 2019.



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 me of my short-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.

-Amy Struthers