Poetry and Painting
Part One: Combining Poetry and Painting
I was not an art student. I studied literature in college. I decided on that major out of a place of passion and privilege. The privilege of coming from a background where I didn’t have to worry too much about my job’s income. My life was filled with my passion for books. I grew up in a household with floor- to- ceiling bookcases filled with everything from Shakespeare to Nicholas Sparks . I realized early that literature could take us to new worlds and transform us.
The Journal and Diary
I began writing in my first diary when I was reading Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl and was obsessed with note- taking about my own life. It was as if I wanted to quietly say, “I’m here, I matter, look at what I see.” Unlike the inspiring young Anne, my entries were silly observations and confessions of a shy spoiled girl in the 1970’s. I’ve kept a journal ever since, In fact, I’ ve thrown out hundreds (and saved several) spiral notebooks full of my words, Today I regularly write to sort through and clarifiy feelings and ideas when I’m overwhelmed with the wackiness of this world.
The Painting
Sometimes words can’t express the images that traipse through my brain or my emotions need color and shape, so I’ve turned to painting later in life. Sometimes I want to calm myself with the movement it takes to stand in front of canvas and use a long brush rather than sitting and tapping away on my computer or using a small pen to scribble words. I move back and forth between painting and writing all the time.
We all are creative people and that’s not a singular, focused thing in our lives.
We cook, decorate, design outfits, paint, sing, dance, write. Each thing informs the other and we can be inspired by anything. I’ve been asked,
“Where do you get ideas to paint? “ Poetry often spurs an image in my mind and I sketch it. Other times I’ll write something to explore a subject and the exploration just continues with painting. I might even paint it over and over.
Here’s an example of a poem I wrote while I was at my brother’s house in the United States. We were gathered, caring for my mother in the last days of her life. The energy in the house was charged and we took turns taking walks or getting out for errands as a release. On one walk I saw some fireflies. I went back to the house, wrote the poem, and illustrated it with a picture. I knew the picture wasn’t “right” so I knew I’d keep painting it and rewriting the poem until it was done.
Another thing I’ve been asked is ,”How do you know when the picture is done?” When it feels right, it feels complete. Sometimes I do more and it begins to seem overworked or overdone. I stop when it’s “good enough” or I’m just plain sick of it. Sometimes I do overdo it and go far as I explore that very question,
“Is it done yet?” Maybe the real question is “Am I done with it yet?”
The Fireflies I painted several small watercolor and gouache paintings which culminated into a final acrylic painting I completed, months later once back home in Spain in the quiet, comfort of my studio room. Here are some of the paintings and the poem.
On a Summer’s Night
Tonight I wandered out onto the street
As dusk turned to dark
Looking for a star to guide me,
But I was met by shadows of green and black
Broken only by lamplight through pockets of windows
of suburban homes.
Suddenly some fireflies appeared hovering over
Lawns with short grasses and pruned flower beds.
Staccato movements through space.
I recognized them as old friends I seldom see.
I followed the hard cement sidewalk path that a million
neighbors have traversed over time
in a circle back to the home where my mother lies sleeping,
Her mind drifting over poppy fields inhabited by ghosts
gone before her.
Back to a room where she readies for flight.
She taught me to appreciate summers
As a respite from the hustle of the demands that
pull every child forward.
She insisted on the importance of these lazy hot days
full of books in the shade of porches and trees,
where we made up games out of boredom.
Long lazy days, that stretched without goals or achievement.
Once she became a grandmother she said,
“It’s important. These barefoot grandmother days”
She called them,
“A time and place to “be.”
In summer
My brother and cousins and I would run round at dusk
on my grandparents lawn in a sea of fireflies,
Capturing them in cupped hands,
Coralling them into empty mayonnaise jars
with holes dotting their metal lids.
I don’t know about our wild world now.
Are the fireflies disappearing
like bees and other essential creatures?
Their absence barely noted like a last breath.
(I know that my mother’s breathing will thicken soon
Until she, too, lets go of her body to the night.)
And after each jar was filled my cousins and I would watch the
The blinking mass of nature’s lanterns
One of us would open the lids
And into the air each being scattered, in shadows of wings.
We’d watch their blinking trails
Let go
As they’d flicker to freedom from their glassy prison.
“Let go” I whispered
Like a delicate prayer for the invisible stars that hover
over my mother
and all of us.
Before returning inside on this summer night,
I pause to watch these last few fireflies
Drift away among the trees.
As if set free by some mysterious hand, they rise
And disappear,
Out of sight.