Thread: The Catch

I'm looking for a poetic interpretation of the attached painting, "The Catch", by Andrea Kowch. This is for a personal project that I'm working on (an online art, poetry, and literary magazine). If you have the time, please post your poem in the reply field of this thread. I'm looking forward to reading your replies!

To me. the person appears to be a girl, so I went along with that. The birds appear to have been "exiting" the cage instead of entering it. Anyway, this is what I based my poem on.

Once in a gray twilight,
in a field where a lone chair
was placed in a meadow not known
to many,
there appeared a women.

She carried her Life
in her hands, her appearance
worned, yet beaming

the air flew towards Her,
for it know why she had
come.

Her hair tossed into
a fire of redden locks.
She then sat in the meadow's chair
and transfixed her gaze
to a spot
that was far and neverending.

Oh the wind, how it
grasped her hair and
made her young again.
Slowly churning it in its hands.

She took a breath
and felt her Life.

It was trapped in
an ashen caged where
it swamed with dark colors

She had to
set it free...
No more holding dear
to times of old!

Her calloused hands turned
the rusted knob, oh how it creaked,
and kept watching
far away as her burderns burst
all around.

They flew,
oh yes how her Life
flew! The wind pushed it
along all around her

and, oh, how her hair blazed!

Winding, turning, churning
feeling so free that they became birds
of night

and so they went,
free from
the cage of old.

She kept still and
silent as they moved around her,
but she felt light coming into her
that was dim
but growing

for she was free
also!
And so her eyes turn
light like her hair
for she would be
alive once again!

All this, in a gray time and place
where the
grass had always swayed
and that would soon
see dawn, and the full
light of day...

Bearycool, I love your interpretation! You gave the subject an interesting back story. The last stanza is my favorite. It flows nicely. I may be in contact with you about using a portion of this for my art/literary 'zine. Thanks so much for taking the time to write this!

Skin Grows Old
After Andrea Kowch


Erasherhead
sits straight recluse
grass is swaying
birds let loose

from a cage
the chair did hold
a hue-less sky
skin grows old.

Pinky up
face abstruse
blood red coat
birds disabused

out of a cage
the chair did hold
a hue-less sky
skin grows old.

Squalid, you did a really beautiful job of translating this into poetry! Thank you very much for taking the time to do this. I'll be in contact with you through PM here on the forum. The third stanza is my favorite..."abstruse" and "disabused"...sigh.

Emalyne

Beneath a heavenless
sloppy grey sky
she sits, strictly,
like a dead-end debutante
in mother’s dining chair.

Emalyne, affixed to a field
blown by the breath
of a beast matters not.
She knows
of greater dreads.

Pressed near her heart,
with a thousand black marks,
the door of a birdcage
she unfastens
after the strength grew up.

You can hear the caw
of crows flying eastward,
heartless black marks,
now clawing the firmament.

Emalyne waits a wicked time
for a dove to enter.

I absolutely love your interpretation, Laurie! There are so many lovely lines, but these have to be my favorites:

"Pressed near her heart,
with a thousand black marks,
the door of a birdcage
she unfastens
after the strength grew up."

The words that you've chosen really strengthen the image of the painting. I'll be in touch...

So, how is going with the magazine?

It's going well. Just got back from a mini vacation, and I have a ton of submissions to read through (which is a very, very good thing)! I really appreciate everyone's contributions, especially with this particular segment. I know that Andrea Kowch will be thrilled to read all of them! Thanks for asking, Josef.

I hope this is not too late....

The Catch

Cracked open like a ribcage;
Out of the heart's door flies
A thousand tales on a thousand wings.

Her red coat, padding shoulders
That sag with the weakness of her command.
If there is no response to her call,
She should lose them all
But there is no freedom to consider such a thing.

She never moves her buried legs
Two sentinels on which she will stand her cause.
And the spareness of her face,
Waits to see
Which of her little heart soldiers
Will return -
Which must be replaced.



I think I ran out of steam a little there at the end, but it was a fun challenge....thank you Celeste for the opportunity, and I hope the magazine goes well.

Nenada, this is a beautiful piece! The story that you've painted is lovely. The last stanza is actually my favorite, and a very strong ending. Thank you for taking the time to respond to the challenge. It's definitely not too late. The site/magazine won't launch until mid may.

Ah, thanks Celeste! That's really made my day

Originally Posted by Celeste Barwick

The site/magazine won't launch until mid may.

Cool! Looks like I still have the time to post a poem!

So how goes the magazine?

The Keeper of the Cage

The winds were stirred
by the wings of
a hundred thousand
raging crows
not one of which
would ever stop
and consider life
inside a brass
wire-cage
constructed
for weak-hearted
canary-types who
never flew in
open-skies
when autumn storms
stir roaring winds ~
Fly and flee
the keeper of
the cage ~