I attended the Nimrod Conference for Readers and Writers at the University of Tulsa last Saturday. It was an excellent experience. I learned a bit in the workshops, and felt encouraged by the editor who looked at three of my poems. I was also reminded how much I love being in an environment comprised of folks who love literature. And how much I enjoy being around people who are working hard to hone their craft. Folks who are trying their best to make good art. It's an enlivening vibe. It sparks creativity. Good stuff, truly.
While there I attended a workshop by Katie Kingston centered around writing poetry in response to art. This is called ekphrastic poetry. The term was new to me, although I have written several poems in response to art.
Kingston handed out postcards embellished with paintings by famous artists. The class participants then wrote poems (or at least thoughts and ideas that could potentially become poems) in response to those paintings.
My painting was Flowering Garden with Path, 1888 by Vincent Van Gogh. Oh, how I love Van Gogh. This painting surprised me. It conjured up memories for me; memories of my mother, her gardens, and how fleeting life really seems to be.
Here's the painting I was working from and my poem. The poem is in very raw form and still needs work, but there is something I like about it.
My Mother's Garden, Unexpected
Along a barren path, my mother's flowers
glowing golden, red, blue
A dream, once dreamed,
then forgotten
My mother's hands, browned by sun and soil,
the heaviness of earth filling my nostrils,
the honeyed scent of lilacs,
the slow drone of bees, melding with
my mother's song
long, low, off-key
The acidic bite of tiny tomatoes
both yellow and red,
warm with the heat of August
And light, green and gold, filling me,
my mother, the evening sky
But only a dream, dreamed, then forgotten
Spring and Summer —gone
Autumn has gathered her leaves, dusting them
across the graves of all my loves
I stand in Winter's garden
remembering
the chicken's cluck and cackle when wading
through the light and life of yesterday's garden
the apple tree, heavy with hope
Up the dusty path I walk, slowly dragging bare feet,
delaying my exit,
birds, quivering in tree branches, call my name,
urging me forward
ever forward
I glance back before leaving
My mother kneels, surrounded by color,
her head down, humming
Jeanice Eagan Davis © 2012
