Friday, 11 October 2013

The Suppressionist.

 I switched on the telly and I switched off. A nature programme about seasons. We are so lucky to have the variety of seasons in the UK. Lying down with a blanket, warmth, comfort. I fell asleep.

 I awoke. As I came round sentences formed like clouds gathering across my mind. I wrote them down. I went to bed.

Beep, Beep, BEEP. Life is back, time to get on. Now a blessed cup of tea. A laptop. Here are the words:

The Suppressionist

I do not do what I want to do,
I do not see who I want to see,
I do not go where I want to go.


If there is any power in my art this is where it comes from.

I suppress, I contain, I concentrate.
The bubble bursts.

An eruption of paint,
The ferocity of a storm,
Unleashed and directed,
Down the arm.
Through the brush and out onto canvas.
Layer upon layer,
New land is formed.
On the surface,
All is calm.

1 comment:

  1. Ah! Just like the seasons your creativity cannot be contained Julie ~ at some point it will explode into colour & saturate the day-to-day duties that, for most of the time, suppress you, frustrate you & wear you down. So ~ you are a poet too ~ & it's a good poem because all the words poured out from deep within you. It is a poem that flows as opposed to a poem that needed to be constructed. I like it :)