metamorphosis in red (20160531)

pain paints a soft portrait in reds
subdued in whisper-light silk threads
(cover us in dark cocoon)

what will appear? we dare to ask
while tugging at the silken mask
(the texture ruptures much too soon)

flame emerges to clear the way
swept out like dancing sparks of day
(we shame the sun, we shame the moon)

with wings of midnight, ashen eyes
we make ascent to starless skies
(dancing again to pain’s red tune)

——

for
the secret keeper
Weekly Writing Prompt #39
| PAINT | CLEAR | DARE | COVER | DANCE |

Poem 20150405

Day five’s challenge from #NaPoWriMo:

Find an Emily Dickinson poem – preferably one you’ve never previously read – and take out all the dashes and line breaks. Make it just one big block of prose. Now, rebreak the lines. Add words where you want. Take out some words. Make your own poem out of it!

Ok, here’s the original, lifted from the Poetry Foundation’s website. Picked at random, as in, i had my eyes closed.

I would not paint — a picture — (348)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
I would not paint — a picture —
I’d rather be the One
It’s bright impossibility
To dwell — delicious — on —
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare — celestial — stir —
Evokes so sweet a torment —
Such sumptuous — Despair —

I would not talk, like Cornets —
I’d rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings —
And out, and easy on —
Through Villages of Ether —
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal —
The pier to my Pontoon —

Nor would I be a Poet —
It’s finer — Own the Ear —
Enamored — impotent — content —
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts — of Melody!

Now, mine:

i would not paint a portrait
i mean, what’s the point
i don’t have the skills
to capture a living spark in oils
and anyway
my hands shake whenever you come near me
and my pictures look like they were done
by a child
not paying attention

i’d rather be the one to be painted
why not want that for myself
it’s a bright impossibility
that will never really
be mine
but to dwell delicious on the idea
is a fine taste in my mouth

i wonder how the fingers will feel
holding the brush
mixing the palette
wielding the knife
cutting through layers of paint
cutting through layers of me
scraping the canvas
to get to the bottom of things
to get to the bottom of me

to tear open the sky and glimpse
that rare celestial clockwork
a sweet torment
a sumptuous despair