Uncategorized, poetry, artist

Diary Entry 30:

4:09 pm Sigma lobby. Based on ‘The Singing Butler’ by Jack Vettriano.  Finished 11:12 pm my dorm.

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Gain

At last, I danced with Autumn

on the sands that were our stage,

and branded in Blythe’s bowler

every choler of his wage.

A love that stemmed from thorny brush,

to now, my blushing hue,

clutching to the comfort of a dream that died in dew.

-Amy Struthers

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artist, poem, poetry, rhyme, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 29:

February 17th:

Gabe, Ryan, Tim, and myself all meet up in Stewart. Gabe tries to persuade me as to why I shouldn’t leave the university. I didn’t feel up to writing a poem.

February 18th:

Felt like falling asleep in class. I didn’t feel like writing a poem.

February 19th: Fell asleep in the lobby and woke up to get ready for class. Based off J.E.H. MacDonald’s ‘The Tangled Garden’. Started 1:50 pm. 7:00pm.

5.1.5

Johnsy

When paths aren’t all that tangled,
and dreams are spun and cast,
and bushels are as fragrant
as the gardens we have passed,
will you still sing of Behrman,
when you rise to note what’s last?

When some boats aren’t that sturdy
and beaches boast as grand
and hands aren’t all that calloused
by the tilling of the land,
will you still write of playtime when you’ve grown too tired for sand?

-Amy Struthers

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

advice, poem, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 25:

Based on Johann Georg Meyer’s ‘Betrayed’. Started: 12:03am. My dorm. Finished: 3:39pm.

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The Ant

Pity the creature

that follows its thirst up the cobblestoned path

only to find a well that’s devoid of water

and a breadcrumbed poison rising in a writhing gut.

In a trail that marks its end,

a procession of pill bugs play on.

It’s dawn,

and the sprinklers keep turning.

Thrown like a sash to the flames

a wet,

wide-eyed wonder

groans into a grave of grass.

-Amy Struthers

artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 24:

I’m paying the price for going out late/staying up early with Gabe. Still feeling under the weather. 7:34pm. 7:52pm My dorm. Based on Cassius Marcellus Coolidge’s A Bachelor’s Dog.

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(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.

-Amy Struthers

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