about the processes we meander through when writing

Construction in Progress

"Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures"- Henry Ward Beecher

"You're confusing product with process...Art, to whatever degree we can get a handle on (I'm not sure that we really can) is a process. It begins in the heart and the mind with the eyes and hands"- Jeff Melvoin

Let me paint you a picture,
Coloured oils on canvas,
Pastels on paper,
Scrawling through the sky.

Like a novice skywriter,
Hoping to master the art that eludes him,
Prompting chatter in the herd of spectators,
Speculation en masse.

Cloud-gazing, the yonder above,
The planes of time and abstract conforming,
Moving in uniform direction
To the next field, the next meadow

The next plateau
Filled with coloured air,
Textured fluff.
Somewhere with a purpose?

Let us soar,
Fly so high your hair is singed
An auburn, blackened ends
And your senses are fully employed

To earn a minefield,
A pot of gold once the colours end,
To thieve a little leprechaun
Who led you through the wrong forest

Thick and full of talking trees,
Mysterious and dark,
Filled with laughter and spite
So you keep running, confused

And the ink keeps on spilling,
Staining your hands
And you can't wash it off
For this palimpsest is made of cells

Locking your secrets away
In code and riddles
You shouldn't ask me for the key
When you have to pick the lock.

You can't see me now,
My eyes behind this shield
So my heart is forced to copy onto paper
And my hand must turn, in patterns.

These patterns of nothing,
Things I must leave behind
On my way to dissolve into the wind
And the sand of all time.

Poetry by Caila Ihle
Read 693 times
Written on 2006-09-07 at 06:47

Tags Poetry 

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