Writing poetry from art ignites creativity and helps you become a better writer. Join Maureen Doallas in this Image-ine Poetry exercise based on Lisa Hess Hesselgrave‘s “Girl in Street.”
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Pure as Sarin
The milkweed pods scattered
when the moon split. The sky
smoked, rust-rubbed; clouds,
cottony cockleburs, stout with
the seed that is the last thing
the girl in the street saw fall.
It was black rain that came,
no warning from the belly
of the bomber.
You don’t get time to be more
than the victim with no name.
You run in whatever you have
on, a too-hot blue-paved street
quieting behind every foot fall.
All the Information We Have
That girl in the street could
have been making snow
cones. I seen her once, back
when Carnival come to town,
working hard to keep straight
all the orders. She was pretty
in her clean aqua shirtwaist,
banded sleeves all puffy, a row
of French pearl buttons running
down the front (she said they
lengthened her frame). Got her
a pair of hips, that one; ample,
always attracted the lookers.
Don’t know why she’s bare
-footed in this picture, on her
side; not one visible mark on
her peach-painted skin, no
penciled brow I could see
to clue me in, just her lyin’
there like she needed a nap
real bad and couldn’t wait
till she got home. Who lies
on the pavement like that.
I got nothing on her at all.
Like: how far she is from that
fishing pier where the sheriff
found two kids a week ago
Sunday. Like: who would put
big black Lab bones inside two
white plastic garbage bags
inside a box marked Attn:
and no return-receipt address.
All the information we have is
what we have to go on. Please
check back for regular updates.
Know something? Say something!
Write a poem of your own based on Lisa’s image “Girl in Street” 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 last 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: “Girl in Street.” (oil on canvas, 11 x 11, 1990) by Lisa Hess Hesselgrave. Used with permission. Poem by Maureen Doallas, author of Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems.
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Richard Maxson says
Just because
we all know her voice,
mother, daughter, sister, friend.
Some times it’s too far away to hear a scream,
or there isn’t one;
nevertheless, we shake
our heads at the news,
or someone ushers us
out of the room from the floor,
where we were playing
and fear rises from a memory—
a hand rescued from a hot stove
when we felt the touch of fear.
When the dress is too familiar,
and the hair resembles…
we turn the dead bolt twice
and pull the door against it after.
When the dress is small and blue,
the architecture of the houses too familiar,
we walk to switches in our halls,
we slice the darkness with an open door,
and let our hearts still for the small
breaths sleeping where the lights fall.
Maureen Doallas says
Evocative and well-written, Richard. The details, which build poignant interiors in the space of memory, and connect to the external, are excellent; I especially like “When the dress is too familiar. . . .” and “When the dress is small and blue. . . .”
Elizabeth marshall says
Richard this evokes such raw emotion. You crawl into the painting and report back to us so tenderly.
I don’t want this series to end. Great job
Elizabeth marshall says
We slice the darkness with open door. What a classic poetic line. Perfectly crafted imagery.
Grace M. Brodhurst-Davis says
Love the poems, Maureen! These two lines really stand out for me from your first poem, “Pure as Sarin”:
“You don’t get time to be more
than the victim with no name.”
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you, Grace. I wasn’t satisfied with the first two I wrote for this. The third and second were the two here.
Richard Maxson says
Maureen, I like the sounds in “Pure as Sarin.” The images in both poems are evocative and jarring. Thanks for the inspiration.
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you, Richard.
Richard Maxson says
Rereading Pure as Sarin, your first stanza reminds me of the opening scene in Un Chien Andalou by Luis Buñuel, when clouds “split” the full moon, just before the razor and the woman’s eye. Did you have that in mind at all?
Maureen Doallas says
No, Richard. I did not have the Bunuel film in mind. I have not seen it, though I know its existence.
Richard Maxson says
This was inspried by an actual news broadcast in 1970, regarding the Vietnam war.
http://theimaginedjay.com/?p=815
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you for sharing this poem, Richard. That line “And so it goes…” always irritated me; it still does! Some wonderful imagery here.
Richard Maxson says
Me too. I hope it read that way in context. After reading Slaughterhouse Five, how could it be taken any other way.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Repose
After a winter wears a soul
Right down to the marrow
It’s a wonder really
This ole bag of bones
Got any life left in her insides
Cold sears every ounce of flesh
Like white hot coals cook that
Raw meet in the summa time
Making a check board pattern
All pretty
When Spring came
Hope blew in on the backs
Of the bees dumpn pollen
Here there
On both sides of that Alabama
County road
It’s where he left me
All used up and worn slap out
By love
Thought I’d met my man
But after these tears done dried up
I’m gonna get back up
Start over in love again
I ain’t gonna let em see my blue eye
Black too
Peace like a river attends my soul
This ain’t nothin but
A little casual
Repose
Down by the creek
That’s where you’ll find me
Washing off
What’s left of love
And
Him
Elizabeth marshall says
Checkerboard
Richard Maxson says
Elizabeth, a new rendition of the old South Pacific song. Your version would make a good blues song.
Maureen Doallas says
This also calls to mind that song “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue”. Once while driving through the South, it seemed as if this were the only song on the radio.
The woman in this poem is much better off without him.
Elizabeth marshall says
Maureen very exquisite, this first poem. Would you consider submitting it 🙂 it is perfectly haunting. So much energy, movement and life spun in a tightly woven piece. Reading multiple times. I think im infatuated with it.
Elizabeth marshall says
And meat. Wish we could edit. #poemtypedonphoneequalstrainwreck
Elizabeth marshall says
Threads of Blue
Although prone
To histrionics and
Exaggeration
And having a wicked sense
Of comedic timing
She was now
At a loss
For words
Struck by the tragedy
Of the turn of events
And so she simply
Laid down
Wept
Tangled up in
Grief
Washed in a sea of
The blues
What else could she do
Being a girl
Prone to exaggeration
Tangled in a web
Of her own
Exaggeration
Woven in threads of
Blues
And in the end
Alone
Richard Maxson says
Elizabeth, this is a sad portrayal of the dark ladder down. I like the poetry of the weaving of events and her personnel perceptions. The structure is done well in the loom of your creation, the line breaks, the repetition.
Marcy says
Mine is very different so hang on to your seats.
Bet she was chasing the moonlight,
Knowing her Mother didn’t approve.
She looks a bit like “Snow White,”
But she’s wearing baby blue.
Her skin reflects the moon
Like a single cream color pearl.
Yet no breath escapes her mouth,
They appear to be turning blue.
Bet she’s a size 8 and shirtwaist
Dresses are all the rage.
Did that just escape my lips?
Oh my, but who in the world
Got here first and stole her shoes,
And designer purse I’m sure?
Now no name or number to be found,
Most likely it was a sick minded
Designer looking for a pair of new shoes
And a bag.
Remind me to always go out looking like
a hag.
Richard Maxson says
I don’t know, Marcy, if I agree with replacing the last word. “Hag” worked for me.
To me this is a brave poem. It is always a risk to reflect the times in which one lives, if the times are less than graceful. This begs for a title, either on point or counterpoint. I like the way the narrator injects her(him)self into a poem describing observations that are void of expected reactions to a girl lying in the street, maybe dead, maybe unconscious. Like Elizabeth’s poem this is a brave presentation, in my opinion.
Marcy says
that should have been “bag” on the last word, keys still getting stuck.
Marcy says
Your right Richard and I did mean to look like a “hag” so I wouldn’t end up being attacked for my shoes and purse. I looked at the wrong sentence at the time thinking bag was hag. I really enjoyed your comments and what you thought, that means a lot for me. Having been an Art Student it’s funny how the eye’s look at things. I spent a bit of time looking and thinking on that one, at one point I really wanted to take her blue dress home. Followed by “Devil with the blue dress, blue dress, blue dress, Devil with the blue dress on. My poor husband doesn’t “Get” poetry at all and for him to even listen to what I write is really a waste of his time. Thankful for friends here and on face book who do.