Poems

.
.

Compass

.

The paintings compass

The painting’s a compass

.

.

Wood to canvas to paint

myself to the front to the back

the object to the room to the light

color to the paint to the cloth

cloth to the wood to the paint

the window to the floor to the wall

myself to the painting to a fellow

painting.

.

Shift, shift. North.

.

.

.

.

..

WalkerChapbook

.

Wise Object, a chapbook of poems by Maria Walker in conjunction with her solo show, The Breeze at Dawn Has Secrets to Tell You.

Copies available for purchase upon request.

.

.

1.

Water, sun, rain

wood, canvas, paint

grow a painting.

.

.

Lift my Eyebrows

There are the trees

the breeze, green.

.

.

.

2.

Paintings born from paintings.

Painting hides

Painting ghosts

Painting shards

Painting clocks and calendars.

.

.

.

3.

I watch the paint

dry and think

about painting.

.

.

.

4.

The paintings need bones

The poems need bones

The body needs bones

.

.

.

The Studio Windows

The studio windows

bring light and night

to the studio.

.

..

.

New Year’s Eve

I go to bed thinking

of how to build a table—

three slabs of wood on top.

.

.

.

.

.

 

Advertisements