Paint flies through the air
and hopefully lands, there
on the to-be poetry chair
It doesn’t seem like
a large act, historically
immense or dense yet
The effect of the wetness,
the slight shimmer, it spells
“Hope” somehow – -
Mary Oliver told me, “You
don’t have to be good,”
I feel my shoulders
release
Just point the paint
push and move and release
and repeat. “You have to become
like a machine,” he said.
This purple I add
starts to turn this
simple one-time-sitting
in-Ikea-warehouse predictable
chair into sculpture
Intention and color morphs it
from “just like all the other
chairs” into a place to sit to
write to read to listen
to enjoy to become
poetry
See more progress on: write a (sloppy, half-formed if need be) poem every day (or so) during October 2010
No comments:
Post a Comment