Also, I really love your epoch poem. The way you embed the personal experiences within a definition format is really lovely. The As In form is new to me, but I think it's a form I've been looking for without knowing it existed. back in February when I was writing poems based on one word prompts I had several words where I got stuck glorying in the definition of the word itself more than having any personal associations with the word. I took copious notes and wanted a way to turn them into a poem but wasn't quite sure how to do that. I think your epoch poem might have unlocked a door. Now I want to go back and look at them again....
Megan thank you for this beautiful post. I especially appreciate your including the lines from Tabitha Yeatts' "What Vincent Couldn't See".
Here is a poem from lines in your post:
"There has been purple.
There will be red.
There will be darkness and silence -
and Light.
Blessed Holy Week to you:)
oooh, thank you, Katie!
a blessed Holy Week to you as well.
Also, I really love your epoch poem. The way you embed the personal experiences within a definition format is really lovely. The As In form is new to me, but I think it's a form I've been looking for without knowing it existed. back in February when I was writing poems based on one word prompts I had several words where I got stuck glorying in the definition of the word itself more than having any personal associations with the word. I took copious notes and wanted a way to turn them into a poem but wasn't quite sure how to do that. I think your epoch poem might have unlocked a door. Now I want to go back and look at them again....
Oh, I hope you do!
I learned about the form in Kwame Alexander's novel in verse "The Crossover." It's so good!
The Pieta gets me every time.
I've always wanted to be a Queen. Thank you.
Dearest Vincent, about this pieta
after Delacroix-- Your lovely lady
dressed in blue doesn't look sad to me.
There she stands, queenly. So graceful. Her gown
shaded with deepest twilight lapis that any
medieval illuminator painting
in his cloister would instantly recognize
as the color reserved for the Queen
of Heaven. That seems right. You were in
a cloister too when you painted her, weren't you?
Although. Her dress is perhaps just a bit
too cheerful, blowing and furling so
joyfully in an invisible breeze.
Don't you think? Couldn't you have made it drape
a bit more sadly? Couldn't you have tamed
it just a bit? Added a touch more gray?
Made it a tad more somber? But no, there's
an exuberance there that you couldn't
quite hold in.
And her arms... they don't quite seem
to be supporting the heavy weight
of her dead son. Rather, they seem to be
stretched out the way they must have stretched when he
was learning to walk. Joseph was right there
propping him upright and there was Mary
waiting, saying: 'Come on, son. Come. You can
do it. Come here to me.' And the toddling
baby took his first faltering steps and
tumbled into her arms. But here she is
in that moment of waiting to receive
his weight. Or maybe it's me she's waiting
for? 'Come here, my daughter, come and see. Come,
let me hold you, too.'
Her face looks serene.
Hardly troubled. Yes, there is a darkness
around her eyes. Her mouth a little tight.
She's holding herself together well. No
weeping and wailing here. She's beyond tears,
beyond grief. She's cried herself out and now
she looks out beyond herself to comfort
the others. Her shy Mona Lisa smile
sweetly anticipates the great secret:
He's coming back.
And lastly, I can't help
but think, dear Vincent, that your slumbering
Christ who slumps against the rock, head against
his mother's breast, looks an awful lot like
you: Short reddish beard, reddish hair... did you
imagine in your distress, dear Vincent,
being held in the arms of so tender
a mother? Did she gently comfort you,
the sorrowful mother? Oh, I hope so.