When I come
in the room
it comes with
me that long
slow thing that
sings and sings;
And, yes, I fear
it now, its yellow
face, its great hibiscus
heart–there is no magic
that can save me
from its bright blooming.
And, so, this wounding
is a piece of you,
a piece of me, grafted
on a paper tree;
you died for love
and I was born bereft–
a man with a cross to bear,
a woman with a heart that dared.
I’ve always been a person who struggled with meaning. Not the “meaning” of my life but what something means. From the time I was a kid I’ve always had to listen real hard to what people were saying–did they mean me when they said that, is there a message there for me, have I done something wrong? It’s like I speak a different language than the rest of the world and have to filter everything through a lens that is deeply clouded. Perhaps that is why I love music and poetry and art so much. I don’t need to understand; I only need to feel! As an artist, I think of my work in specific ways–drawing, mixed-media, experimental, narrative, landscape, colorful, however, because of my own confusion about “meaning” I don’t expect anyone to share my viewpoint about my work. When I approach a painting, or a poem, or a song; I bring myself and all the history that life has burdened me with as audience. If you truly want to be creative then you can’t put fences around your work. The work must be free but you have to understand that a viewer, a listener will find in your work what they need, not what you need. I invite people to tell me what they see in my drawings. Sometimes it is very intimidating! Recently a friend asked me “When did you move from the rain into the sunshine?” I was stunned! Did she see that in my drawings, did she see that in me, or was she telling me about herself? No work of art is entirely removed from the artist but the artist, certainly, cannot prevent the audience from finding meanings that are necessary to them. Good art will always transcend the artist because it allows for interpretation. You can’t tell the world that you want your art to be “free” and then get angry because someone called your drawing “a painting”, your poem “a song” or your song “a poem.” My life has taught me that meaning is at best elusive. I have survived because I’ve always understood that every work of art, that every poem, that every song is there to comfort me in this hard thing called life. What artist could ask for more?
She loved the
moon light in
the moonlight,
the ceaseless
murmuring of
her own leaves,
the hard wood
of her hardwood,
and, yes, the
dark forest.
She loved the
shadow in
the shadows,
witness and
companion,
sentinel to
her sadness,
rooted in
the moonlight,
rooted in
the trees.
rlmcdermott 