From Sixty-seven
Pages from the Heart, p.23-24:
The Accuracy of the Painter's Eye
Norman never saw Ruby
when she was a
little girl making history.
He just painted her the way he imagined.
Starched, crisp whites cover her sweet, dark chocolate
skin;
This highest of contrasts is a harbinger of the storm
that
rages around her
calm.
The white ribbon in her hair seems to sway ever so
slightly like a
tiny flag signaling
her innocent
surrender to the storm
she knows
nothing about.
She is a small, yet commanding presence.
Her profile
reveals a Mona Lisa-like smile.
The little girl looks straight ahead,
dreams wildly,
and cradles in
her hand
two notebooks,
two pencils and a ruler.
She is focused, inwardly excited and prepared.
But, the wall parallel to her walk bears the marks of the
storm – A web-like splatter from a red, ripe tomato,
Drips leave a
trail that ends at the sidewalk;
Smashed pieces
of its flesh and pulp
confirm the
target of the unsuccessful pitcher.
The little girl named Ruby.
The N-word sits
right above her head.
A triplet of Ks
curve upward.
Two Deputy U. S. Marshals
walk three paces
behind her.
Another two walk one pace ahead.
The Lead Marshal has the integration order
tucked in his
pocket. They are faceless.
It is clear who the hero is not.
Norman never saw Ruby
when she was a
little girl making history.
He just painted her the way she was - a kindergartener
thinking the
commotion ahead was Mardi Gras.
The Irritant
Historically
in the minority -
we with a poetic bent.
Never a
less than warm reception
‘til this day came and went.
Comments
round the table,
a Monday in July;
Only a few
voices
could I identify.
“This is good.” “Straight from the heart.”
is what I typically hear.
But
unfamiliar inputs,
my attention commandeers.
“I don’t
do poetry.”
“It’s not something that I like.”
One or two
more such comments,
their themes very much alike.
This
brings into question
my involvement after many a year.
Life is
short, I don’t need this;
The path before me unclear.
If
poetry’s not welcome,
I’ll just take a break.
Or maybe I
won’t write poems,
that thought makes my heart ache.
To force
other kinds of writing,
those voices this may still;
But this
is not where I am at,
I’ve a mission to fulfill.
During my
time away, I’ve realized
the Irritant’s job is quite important –
Distract,
stir up, pique, and challenge,
typically actions that are discordant.
But when I
looked deeper, Latin reveals
the Irritant’s influence can be good -
Excite,
provide stimulus, and encourage;
Perhaps your words misunderstood.
I took a
break; I got it together;
I’m back as you can see;
The time
was used to finally create
a book of poetry.
So, thanks
to the Irritant,
a force that is the norm;
For it is
the Irritant that causes,
over time, a pearl to form.
No comments:
Post a Comment