Wednesday, July 8, 2015
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
an envelope of dreams and sighs.
She folds her skin
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