by Darryl Price
Introduction to American Brush Painting/ An S.O.S. by Darryl Price
Whatever it is I was
Supposed to learn, Master, I
Have already forgotten it. Whatever
Good thing could have come
From my being here lost
Ground a long time ago.
Now they line up to
Spit in my paints with
Their fists doing the talking.
My poems are plucked and
Scattered or stuck into hatbands
As a joke. Whatever it
Was that was meant to
Free them only left them
Angered and more. Whatever it
Is I was going to
Become, Master, I am only
Me. I should be glad
That I served no purpose,
Changed nothing. You should have
Never put anything in this
Care, Master. Why did you
Trust me to deliver such
A precious gift? I could
Barely open my eyes for
The force of the winds
Against me. Now it is
Lost, a snowflake. Whatever it
Is I was supposed to
Show up knowing took the
Opposite path to wisdom and
Carved a hollow walk for
Some very real tears. Now
I'm back at your door
With nothing to show for
It but empty pockets and
A broken heart. Whatever it
Is, Master, it's beyond this
Protecting, the enemy's got it
Locked in their brutish arms.
The hand is always reaching for you and me. We
can't worry about that. You'll have a moment in time
to say your piece. Then the whole thing gets buried
beneath the waves like it never happened in any special
way. The surface will simply be a new blank book.
But I'll know you put up a beautiful fight. And
if you're lucky someone will have seen something flash on
the horizon of their own dreaming and this will spark
a revolution in their thinking. That's worth the try, and
any-way the other way is a false start from the
dawn to the next day. The hand is a bunch
of idiots, but not the good kind. The hand is
black cloth thrown over a lamp. The hand is picking
on you, what're you going to do? The hand is
a liar. The hand is always throwing bombs. The hand
is an octopus, not the good kind. Its beak will
tear you apart in your prettiest sleep. The hand is
a trap door. A venom spraying worm. But that's its
electric blue nature. We need to take blue back and
give it to the children who thought we lost them
in the land of forgotten leaves. We never stop looking,
but neither does the hand. The hand is a fire,
not the good kind, but terrible tasting in its kiss
of empty betrayal. Might as well tell it like it
is. The hand is a shame, but not ashamed. The
hand is a prison, a bank, a zoo, a thirst,
a stop in the progress of all spontaneous dance. The
hand is around your throat. The hand is down your
pants. The hand is holding a dirty dagger behind its
smiling back, but you know all that. I'm just saying,
let's get out of here. Please. I don't want to
do it without you. It gets so lonely. Silent and
cold. I leave these words for you to find. I
trust you to not misunderstand them. Use their power. Put
that magic spell where it will do the most good. dp
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There are people who shine so brightly--sometimes they don't even know it, and of course everyone around them is jealous. I don't know why people have to be so petty--they can never be happy for someone else, but they'll constantly try to get close enough to steal someone else's natural light for themselves. I just want to protect the ones who shine from the predators in the dark all around them. Be a witness to the amazing effect they have on all our lives and openly be thankful for it. While I still can speak.
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"So radiantly a / wild threat--horses running away with / our spare set of keys. Like butterflies / and fresh paint. Like an arm hung over // the side of a boat. So dangerous / and misunderstood, refined, ruthless. / So radiantly a threat something's // bound to get torn like a kite. But to / be fair it's a threat with shine on its / side."
"So radiantly a threat are you
that it names you the best answer yet // to the boldest questions of why. So / radiantly a threat to them I'm / instantly blasted out of my shell."
Astounding poem.
*
Comes to me as a crescendo of feeling leading to a cymbal clash.
Stunning, Darryl. The symphony of simile. Her smile is at once like a star, a threat, a "a horse running away with our spare set of keys," like a butterfly, dangerous, misunderstood...on and on. Then you get to what the speaker is making sense of: "So radiantly a threat you make to them I want to join in." The way we arrive at this unanswerable question is quite a feat. **
My favorite part:
So radiantly a
wild threat--horses running away with
our spare set of keys. Like butterflies
and fresh paint. Like an arm hung over
the side of a boat. So dangerous
and misunderstood, refined, ruthless.
nicely done.
Thanks, folks! Much appreciated.