The Art of Revision

I had an apple.
A fresh crisp apple
Cleanly sketched
Onto a soft white canvas.

I had an apple.
A perfect and holy
Rounded globe
With a well trimmed stem.
Angled and deliberate.

But in the dim studio light
That speckled the paper,
The apple seemed to flop,
Lopsided and lazy.

I dabbed stubbornly,
With the stub of my eraser
At itís neat edges.
I dabbed until the pencil lead streaked
In misery.
Until the paper thinned
To nothing.

The naked little fruit swelled.
Blotchy and bloated.
But I wanted to salvage this shipwrecked fruit.
Only color could
Correct this ash.
I began to tailor its belly
With a deep ruby,
The healing hue.

I dealt
Careful strokes of color
Which stung the page in
A clash of emotion.
The fat apple frowned
Behind the thin slick
Curves of red.

So I let the paint
Recklessly slide and slip.
A true rainstorm,
Of thick red clay.
The apple sloshed
In the muck.

The wetness soon dried.
And the canvas corners frayed
And cackled.
Smooth edges shriveled,
And rippled the fruit.

I stepped back,
Stared at disaster.
Tattered.
Worn.
Disfigured.
And beautiful.


















Poetry by Shawn Monahan
Read 606 times
Written on 2008-02-01 at 21:48

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Bob
As a painter myself I can truly see the events that unfold here, and as a poet, yes: keep the flow!
2008-02-02


David L Wright
Words painted on lifes canvas that would cause William Tell to salivate. Good job. Happy trails neighbor.
2008-02-01