I was looking through a folder last night and found this poem I'd written in December 1992 and since I've not produced any artworks over the past week to show you I thought I'd post it here.
She is inside
the folded curve
the sea shell
breathes
silent water
laughs beneath the stream,
trickles cold,
the soft caress
an empty cave
away, away
into the
darkened sky
the clouds
burst full
cascading
drapes
an envelope of
dreams and sighs.
She folds her
skin
into herself
wrapping each
part carefully, as though for final resting,
the creases
mark the place & so
they disappear
neatly, piece by piece -
the limbs and
all external features
as though
erased
& misty
gone, a voice
so far away
and barely known or understood
among the
clatter and clogging dusk
befalls the
hidden hall
a narrow gauge
of this emotion
& all is
failed & all thought shadows
time does not
diminish action -
the shell, a
folded place.
It is just
that -
the wail, a
ship that's
tossed and
skin is gashed
the flesh so
torn and bled on rusted
aftermath of
wreck, with no survivors'
cries to haunt
the water's edge.
Julie
Clarke (c) 20 December 1992
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