artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 21:

February 10th/Entry 20:

Poem absent.

I inform my mother and grandmother I do not wish to continue my education at the university. I express how I desire the freedom to travel.

I spend the majority of the day messaging my friend Micah/completing homework. I put off writing a poem until late at night.

While out, I receive a message that my friend is having a crisis. I cancel my plans and communicate I’ll take a hit to my work to ensure he’s ok. We travel off-campus to eat a late dinner.

February 11th/Entry 21:

I’m absolutely exhausted. Stayed up for another student’s Venmo purchase.

I look at the clock at 9:16pm. I forget to type the time before. I finish at 9:22.

Based on Frederick Judd Waugh’s ‘The Setting Sun’.

image

Study Break

Who can write a poem when they’re about to crash
or as inlet eyes lull the act of fishing for words to sleep?
The motions we keep
with the tide,
next to the stickered-up steno with its wide
mouth agape
and its blue lines bobbing
in the yellowed waters for penciled minnows.

-Amy Struthers

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artist, poetry, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 19:

12:23pm. My dorm. I visit my friends but leave prematurely. Some things have happened that I don’t wish to discuss. The individuals I’ve met at my university are quite possibly the most manipulative people I have met in my entire life. I’ve taken to looking for friends online because I cannot cope with the ignorance and abuse that dictates camaraderie. Finish at 11:43pm. 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 her leafing limbs,
bearing a name
that means ‘God is gracious’
and kissed my head with the favor of a love I buried.
Before Jeanne, I tarried
in the garden where now, I plant my place.

-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, rhyme, Uncategorized

How Grand This Vision

How grand this vision of the mind
that pesters for a place
and lands in blind men’s buckets
as the stems that form his base.

How grand the height of humble hues-
the youth of blazing sun,
the portrait grazing purples,
and the beryl beads that run.

How grand the reach of failure
as the hands of watches slow
and pause on parted petals
in the fields where seconds glow.

– 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:

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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