Writing poetry from art ignites creativity and helps you become a better writer. Join Maureen Doallas in this Image-ine exercise based on “Hot Sky, ” a painting by Lisa Hess Hesselgrave.
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Closing In
The wild closes in
the moment the sun
idles in its profusion
of mauves and reds.
With the blush of air,
I harbor blue to slow
the progress of time
that thickens roots
and deepens the char
of lost afternoons.
I trip over the orange
that tricks the moon
to appear a too-soon
omen of blurred visions
to come, tongue lolling
in heat-fed sleep. Dark
carries its own night
dreams. How I see
the sea become a field
of frost-licked snow,
sky the arms holding it
back from my mouth
athirst in fear. I mean
to find my own way out.
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Write a poem of your own based on Lisa’s image “Hot Sky” or choose a line from Maureen’s poem as a starting place. Post on your blog and link to us (we love that), or just drop your poems here in the comment box.
This is the second in a series of Image-ine Poetry posts based on Lisa Hess Hesselgrave‘s paintings.
Related:
See the first Image-ine Poetry post in this series.
See the second Image-ine Poetry post in this series.
See the third Image-ine Poetry post in this series.
See the fourth Image-ine Poetry post in this series.
Explore other Image-ine Poetry exercises.
Painting: “Hot Sky” (oil on canvas) by Lisa Hess Hesselgrave. Used with permission. Poem by Maureen Doallas, author of Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems.
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Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Maureen this is lovely. Both the painting and your glorious words. There is much to linger in here, so I will slowly walk back through your poetry. And visit the first in the series.
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you for the generous words, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Hieroglyphics
The Messenger
Stood,
Rooted in rock
Grounded in earth’s stone-cold soil
Waved me down
Brought my harried paces to a frigid stop
Whispered, a barely audible breathy
Halt
A call to notice
What was barely there
Planted in a stripped and naked tree
Penned against an ombre sky
By arms, skeletal wild and free
As if dipped in inkwell
With a cryptic message just for me
Set against a canvas, wild ablaze
One day I will tell what I found there
Translate what the willows said to me
Pen in hand
Interpret what those hieroglyphics
Said
Through the fragile branches of
That tree
One day
I’ll tell the story
Of the wild and naked tree.
Ann Kroeker says
I love how you have taken time with both painting and poem to create your own work, with the “wild” showing up in the last line of your poem, Elizabeth, just as it did in Maureen’s.
The painting gave you pause; your poem gives me pause, as well, as I consider what the untold story might be–the story you will tell one day, even as you tell the beginning here.
Maureen Doallas says
I love that you leave the discernment of meaning open, Elizabeth, with your excellent concluding stanza. Some vivid imagery, too. The poem has a mythic and mysterious feeling.
Thank you for contributing!
Richard Maxson says
Elizabeth, bless these messengers, the tree and its poet. I liked the way the two one word lines were “Halt” and “Said.” The two actions by the poet and the tree that made the rest possible. I too look forward to the sequel.
Richard Maxson says
Truly inspiring Maureen! Your piece infuses the painting with the possibilities of poetry. I am especially fond of “the progress of time/that thickens roots/and deepens the char/of lost afternoons.” What an amazing image!
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you so much, Richard.
Richard Maxson says
Before the rain
A carmine sky inclined
itself against the bulk
of night while you slept.
Speckled doves coo
on clutched wires,
as though the prairie
were a marionette,
staged in a tented fete,
the footlights of morning
kindled over the horizon.
From an updraft a dry tongue
screams on a hyphen of wings
spread over the rising wind.
The cactus with its bruised pears
and cloistered blooms
pricks at the rivers
raging in the air
behind the shifting
curtain of coming day,
prepared in silence,
for the moment not yet here,
from gathered oceans,
breath and swill,
utterance and tear.
Maureen Doallas says
Such vivid imagery, Richard, especially in those first three stanzas. A word-painting!
nance.mdr says
http://nancemarie.blogspot.com/2013/12/hot-sky.html
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you, Nance! Rather dark and eerie. Lots of atmosphere.
Rosanne Osborne says
Annum Sacrum
Twelvemonth burns
to begin,
estrus riding
the spokes
relentlessly rotating
the dreams
buried in burdened
ash.
Maureen Doallas says
Striking!
lynndiane says
Rosanne, wonderful how you connected with the changing of years. Amazing poems here…
lynndiane says
revenge
In a frozen land
where temps dip
below nothing,
winds whip snow
across roads to
whirl into ditches
in wavy dunes,
it’s a comfort
to know that
somewhere…
the sky is hot
with flaming clouds
and burning colors,
heat waves rise
from soft asphalt
while the natives
and tourists sweat.
Maureen Doallas says
This is apt, given our current wintry weather. My son chose the right time to go to Guatemala.
Thank you for contributing, Lynndiane.
lynndiane says
(edit my title to: “revenge is heat”)