after Joan Miro
nothing is important
your tiny heart
stitching itself to the sky,
planets like a girl's fingerprints
children singing about
the sorrow of winglessness,
a heavy secret never to be told
nothing was more important
you became the first
small thing with blood
to love your own face in the mirror
flight
the way you named yourself
2 comments:
Man, this is really revealing to an old "data-based thinker" like me; specifically, how two people can look at a picture (hear a poem, read a book, etc) and "get" entirely different things. I have to admit, that could be a magpie in there; but I would never have seen it, unless of course the artist specified it!!
Ha...I wouldn't have either, except the name of the painting is "There Was a Little Magpie." So far, when I do these poems, I keep the title of the work for the title of the poem. This one...it doesn't feel finished yet...I don't know.
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