A Poem: On the He(Art) of Survivors

There is a certain sadness in The Guild.
shreds of human pain
angst that goes deeper than the medium
remnants of violence
pain in heavy lines
bloody reds oozing out of the frames
glimmers of hope
splotches of yellow in rays and sunflowers
empty eyes–but not really
almost temple-like
a shrine to survival
…and death
hanging on a clothesline in a macabre
dance of shadows
like flimsy prayers with
no wind of hope

There is no joyful abandon here.
only mystery, intrigue, innuendos
veiled behind veiled looks, falling hair, shadows
nothing is as it seems
it’s really worse than it looks
streaks of color shift
to webs and tangles of arms, hands, forest, hair
more empty stares
ennui in a bottle
bloody mary in a tub
studied nonchalance hiding behind dark lenses
patches and pastiches of line and color
stark words on a starker background
do the pluses really outweigh the minuses?
surrealistic fairy figures behind pained looks
the greens of the earth bleed
red through ochres and browns
a bright red here, a dark red there
and the red-flowered brown knit ball
on a twisted pole
on a rusted spade
pig’s head? scarecrow? mummified head?
vaguely reminiscent of wild children and flies
and two empty bowls with a ladle
and nothing to ladle out–

are survivors so empty of their being
or are they just waiting to be filled?

–Charlottetown
27 March 2012

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