It’s
been a year – maybe more – since I’ve turned to the poem.
Many
things have changed; many more have not.
Black
coffee still stains my teeth;
still
kick-starts my eyes to life with its fair trade boots
as
I wait for the sky’s pastel palette to yield hope.
And
as I wait, I listen to Miles Davis
as
he blows and blows smooth jazzy madness
over
and over and over,
and
my ears covered feel fuzzy-warm
and
suddenly…YES SUDDENLY
I
understand
how
it offsets the mad irregular clicks
in
my back bone as I hunker awkwardly over keys,
as
I tap tap TAP and reconcile stale and fatigued portfolios,
as
I blind myself into the dark of night over masked taped
paper
trying desperately to capture the image before me;
determined
to bolster my profile across all mediums.
I’m
trying to teach myself patience; trying to dissect
what
is really before me; trying to make sense of the numbers or the image;
trying
trying TRYING,
always
trying to understand the souls
that
weave uncertainly into my life like mad clowns
on
oval-wheeled machines.
I
get to set the rules of how to wow the paint,
of
how to bow before the colours as they land,
absorbing
the beat, my feet tap the rhythm of the strokes brushed;
I
let the music help me and guide me and woo me.
I
listen eagerly!
Each
piece ties into one constant,
into
a singular pulsing thought,
onto
a hook, pierced and throbbing
and
then I pull and pull and reel and pull
whatever
it is I’m searching for in towards
me
so I can grab it and club it into submission
with
a resounding dab or stroke or full stop of finality,
and
when it is over,
I
let the wooden eyes of life
splinter
a glance over my work
and
say good job.
Tomas Bird - Apple Fire
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