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

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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