Exercise: ‘Portrait’
I’d like you to write with the title ‘Portrait’ – though you may change that title once your piece is finished. Perhaps include the words ‘dust’ ’twin’ ‘glass’ and ’ink’.
To help you, I’ve attached three images:
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‘Portrait of a Young Woman’ by Gregory Masurovsky (the misty one)
https://www.pkf-imagecollection.org/artist/Gregory_Masurovsky/works/6339
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‘Self Portrait after Going Blind’ by Jorge Luis Borges (the scribbly one)
http://www.critical-theory.com/jorge-luis-borges-self-portrait-drawn-after-becoming-blind/
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‘Self Portrait’ by Louise Bourgeois (the red and blue one)
https://www.moma.org/s/lb/collection_lb/object/object_objid-71579.html
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[Only links given as the three portraits are each in copyright]
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AWOL Week #9 responses
portrait by [anon]
portrait
In the mirror lies
an unidentified twin,
eyeing dark lines
in light of the past.
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Entwined in the finite
shedding of skin,
a reticent shadow
with shackles to cast.
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As black and hollow
as ink over glass,
a lingering flame
slowly flickers and dies.
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Shattering twilight
reveals at the last,
a birth to dust
from which we rise.
[anon]
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ma_sk ON by [anon]
ma_sk ON
ur Fa¢es a ma.sk
%√={}
to dehumanise
to inc€ntivi$e
y.our neighb.our
not
NnNot y.our friend
it cou/d be y0u
you OR us
u r us
w3 are the ¢0llect)-(ive
a Unit
reAdy And Able
to b€e counted
e¥es and 4our willing limbs
*:checksum*
a Pr0phet MachiNe
no 0ld man is anN island
No ma.sk has a Fa¢e
[anon]
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TWINS : SELF PORTRAIT IN INK. by Kathleen Mary Goodridge
TWINS : SELF PORTRAIT IN INK. `
treachery of looking glass
and the soft dust of memory drifting onto my shoulder.
Kathleen Mary Goodridge.
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The Lost and Found Portrait by Jodi Glass
The Lost and Found Portrait
A builder, saving centuries old artefacts, in a previous closed-up attic. Came across a cherry tree adorned cloth. The pink faded by dust, but surrounding a six by four photo frame. Became distracted by busy detailed tiles, 1800’s in age. The silk intact, was put aside, for it wasn’t interesting enough. If they had looked they would have found, an ink drawing, portrait. Protected by glass later added. Artist unknown and nearly forgotten.
After trying to save the past, the builder, saved a treasure. A century ago, a new floor was laid, and secrets hidden. A mystery too old to be solved. A lie, a pact, only now discovered. They weren’t to know, a twin lay under, lock and key, crying for her Albert, lost in a robbery. For a queen needs her mate.
Far away in London.
Jodi Glass
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Lucent by Peter Marshall
Lucent
All set aside, a lucent hue,
that brightest, clearest vivid blue.
Behold within that pyramid,
most ancient shape with tight turned lid.
The finest liquid, coloured ink
to scribe my thoughts for when I think.
Alas! Dismay! It gathers dust,
awaits verbal passion’s gust.
The shape conveys the best of glass
and mementos of what did pass.
The vessel has a nearby twin,
similar once, they did begin.
I use the quill and sharp penknife
to help portray details of life.
At times I really should use red
to underline highlights instead.
2020 05 18 Peter Marshall
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ode to her pen by lotty
ode to her pen
In her younger years the anger that flowed from her pen was raw and filled with never-ending pain. Each page continually splattered with childhood traumas and fears, but also teenage tears of confusion and maybe her hormones were growing, accompanied by much self-loathing.
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But now in her older years her pen does not know what we call such things, for after much council and searching of the soul her mind is fixed – who she should have been able to be all along.
And she can breathe, be at peace; the shackles of life have been shattered. She was resolved and remains so to this day.
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But unfortunately, she does not know where her pen will want to go or what emotions it will allow to flow from itself.
Though the woman about whom it writes does not care if it is many hours of labour over countless nights, bringing her untold riches.
Her happiness is in the beauty and pleasure she and her pen can create and find in the pages.
by lotty 16th may 2020
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Gifts #1 by V. Rivers
Gifts #1
From the carnage of the lighthouse floor
I stole a box of turnip seeds
to grow an avenue of wealth
around my neighbours’ chestnut tree.
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On the shadow of the lighthouse wall
I drew another lighthouse wall
to soothe the nanny goats who hid
behind my sleekit landlords’ door.
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By the shatter of the lighthouse lens
I took the stolen turnips seeds
and ran from all the nanny goats
and avenues and chestnut trees.
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For the haven of the lighthouse heart
I made a nest beneath my bed
to grow the stolen turnip seeds
into a grove of lighthouse trees.
V. Rivers
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Night’s Songbirds by Elisheva Katz
Night’s Songbirds
Being alone is nothing to fear. Night is not the enemy that it is made out to be. Why – it is in the stillness of the night and only in the night do I find peace within. The cover of darkness takes away the nightmares of the day.
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Living Nightmares of all those people, too many people, too many voices incessantly buzzing around and around in my head, till no longer do I understand them nor wish to understand them anymore!
Leave do I behind that world of self indulgent chaos and Steal myself away, into the quite tenderness that the night gives me.
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In night’s stillness I am free to sing with the other songbirds of the hope in a new dawning to come.
Elisheva Katz
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Sky Full of Ashes by Elisheva Katz
*Gaza
Sky Full of Ashes
*Gaza
Paper birds flying into forever
I am drifting like a feather into your heart
Now i am falling into the corner of your mind
Music all around
Piano drops out of me
Notes float on the wind
Cannot tell if I am dead or alive
Smoke stings my eyes, chokes me, smell of burnt flesh
Sky fall of ashes
Where did they come from
To whom do they belong
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Sky full of ashes
I do believe those ashes are partly me
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Elisheva Katz
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Warning Of The Crows by Elisheva Katz
Warning Of The Crows
Twin crows painted in ink
Stand high on wire crying out warnings
nobody listens to their pleas
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Glass broken bottles of human waste
Cuts deep into the cartilage of innocents
Everybody looks away
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Dust settles onto bones
Flesh eaten by vultures of what is left
Not a word is spoken of such crimes
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Twin crows painted in ink
Crying out warnings from high up above
Fly away from impending death
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Somehow nobody seems to care
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Written by elisheva katz
May 16th 2020
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Rose Rose Red by Elisheva Katz
Rose Rose Red
It was while the world was sleeping Moon turned to blood, whispering dreams in summer night’s wind. Her blood covered me; or was it my blood that covered her?
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“Where are my dreams, blood moon? Why is it that only nightmares come my way?”
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Threw I those nightmares away, only for them to come back to taunt me, dance around me like horrible little fairies high on weed.
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Sea salt was splashing around my feet as I looked north to see two twin crows watching me.
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“Why are you looking at me in that way, twin crows? Stop it, stop looking at me as if I am not who I think I am.”
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Twin crows flew above my head screeching down to look into the sea. I looked down and saw fragments of my life lying on the sea’s bed like some forgotten shipwreck. How could this be? Is this indeed what has become of me? Tried did I to rescue those fragments of my life, but every time I got nearer they got further and further away.
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The night was slipping through my fingers and no longer could I see blood moon, I could only see me. A lone wolf, all skin and bones with a red rose growing out of my chest, sharp thorns that were meant to protect my heart made me bleed.
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To the east of me the sun was rising, turning from red into gold. His light was getting brighter and brighter – too bright for me. I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes to the night.
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While the world was waking from their dreams – I was still locked inside my nightmare.
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A red rose still in my chest.
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Written by elisheva katz
May 20th 2020
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