poetryrepairs 16,10:111

CHARLES ENTREKIN : Icarus
CHARLES ENTREKIN : Portrait of an Artist

for your reading pleasure, verse
from new and established poets
poetry requires a mature audience,
if you are under 18 years of age, click here Big Fish


CHARLES ENTREKIN
Icarus

CHARLES ENTREKIN So many dead finches. Lightning quick, he remembers, but not as quick as the stones, and the laughter in his sonís eyes. The motherís face turns in profile, the flash bulbs of her body breaking, crushed. Or was she only another passerby, swallowed by the sea? Daedalus stands, steady, putting his cares away each night on his carefully ordered shelf, hearing his young sonís laugh just like the motherís, remembering all the small dead bodies they shook from the dirt and how the glue itched his skin the fun of the escape how the wind howled as they fled and he left every care he had ever known behind him.

poetryrepairs #229 16,10:111





CHARLES ENTREKIN
Portrait of an Artist

for Maggie
In grade school she won every race and never faced the boys who laughed. Embarrassed, harassed she taped her breasts flat, didnít want to be a girl, just wanted to run and never look back. Her father alone in a Palo Alto bar, her mother at home, silent in failure with vodka, tonic, and cigarettes. Left with her paints she changed her life with color, particularly blue. She painted their new TV blue, then to her dadís dismay, painted his new car blue too. Too blue, too blue, all the carís mahogany, enamel blue. Twenty-two, in art school, her parents divorced, she set a new course, left the boyfriend who beat her up and moved in with me. Pregnant, she decided life was big, bigger than her best expectations. Then every small thing became big. She painted big, she painted a giant orange pig, hung it over our living room couch. After the baby she started to drink, had the affair, stopped getting out of bed, painted our living room enamel red. After work one evening I found her sipping, tipsy, sorry watching bright blue morning glories close up for the night. But how I like to think of her sitting before her canvas white shirt, face, hands all covered with paint, fighting herself to create: a woman on the beach, flat white space for a face, a woman in a wild field of foxtails, straining to face backwards, a woman with long tubular arms, blue business suit, no hands, a woman, sideways, huge with child, in a blue bathing suit, trying to stand without any feet.

poetryrepairs #229 16,10:111






   




thank you for reading poetryrepairs
please link to http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v16/111.html
link to POETRYREPAIRS




All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

poetry repairs your heart
even as it splits it open.
VIRGINIA WOOLF
The Art of Reading





Our Dancing Poet Logo! FIND GIFT BUY GIFT
http://www.zazzle.com/poetryrepairshop



No state organ: POETRYREPAIRS
accepts NO money from federal,
state, or local governments.
READERS maintain poetryrepairs
NO READING FEE FOR SUBMISSIONS. DONATIONS, while appreciated, WILL NOT INCREASE CHANCES OF BEING SELECTED.


I have many things to write unto you but
I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian


free counters


REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- Oxford English Dictionary


read more poetry

CHARLES ENTREKIN

CHARLES ENTREKIN


top