Crystal Snoddon: Letters, like atoms coalesce into form.
In honor of the Ekphrastic: Hennig, Van Gogh, Luzajic
While Hennig Paints the Girl Reading Strokes show how Gustav loved her pious head, bent in submission to the small book, all hushed, bound and corseted in quiet black, including the inked words. What edifice flows from beige page to pink forehead, only the Girl knows. Eyes closed, perhaps she is rewriting the prose into her own image.
http://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/while-hennig-paints-the-girl-reading-by-crystal-snoddon
photo credit: pintrest, Gustav Hennig, oil on canvas Reading Girl 1828
photo credit: wikipedia, Vincent Van Gogh, The Starry Night 1889
With Van Gogh, I Hear Music Outrageous whorls, Vincent, cochlear want-daubs in whispers - a spirited thirst a scream of controlled turbulence an aria. Echoes of whirling dervish poets who kick up earthy pigments of raw umber - taste their swirled words. My lover says, look - the sun sets, presses want back into the day. But I say nothing. My ventricles treacherous cyclones swirl perpetual indigo oscillate an eternal starry night.
http://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/with-van-gogh-i-hear-music-by-crystal-snoddon
photo credit: wix.com
No Bird Flies in a Storm Try to hold still in a downpour, to stop shoulders and sternum from scrunching into your spine. The pelting spittle of cold anger gets to make everyone shorter, smaller. Never asks for permission. Each drop an icy NO over and over until blued skin screams its own shivering retreat. Birds are smart; birds know to fly for cover, they hide in meshed tree limbs, under eaves and leaves. They’ve the sense to listen to their little brains and hunker down, await the storm’s passage. Avoid the rain. How I wish for the sense of a bird. Perhaps I’d not be here again in emerge, waiting for the x-rays of my bruised and battered face, deflecting the kind nurse who sighs while slipping a hand around my back, asking ‘How did it happen?’, while I shrink and complain how steep my stairs, how Tony found me, brought me in. He waits, perched in the car. He’ll drive home quickly, not saying a word, and I’ll watch, listening for the next storm to roll in.
http://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-review/no-bird-flies-in-a-storm
