( amour fou )

( amour fou )

we leave

the house to ramble

when twilight stretches

we amble to the art gallery

where he insists on lingering

in front of extraordinarily tragic

post-war paintings on the second floor

we pass through halls lined with useless geezers

note their somnolent eyes, pouched cheeks, sadness

& corridors of the historical male gaze on the female body

he is always in a fevered search of earth-toned abstractions

while I loiter in the sublime aspect of following him around

***

My pal is back with poem prompts! I traded the crossword puzzle on my morning commute for a bit of pecking. The prompt: crazy love. I opted for translating it into French for the title and went to town and then paired it with a post-war Pollock.

Being able to write this poem opened up my chest. I’ve had my big fat head buried in the sand of late. I can’t get out of my own way. Writing always helps. I still feel grizzled and unsettled, unsure of myself, of everything. Writing helped me today. Grateful for that. It’s hard to need to open up only to be flouted. So silence, walls. Big thick walls. There’s nowhere for the drama to go but the page, right? At least this way someone is listening to something other than inside out anguish. Soul is tired. And still, I persevere.

Poetry!

In propinquity,

Nic