Everyman by Lesley Prentis

A poem that came from a free-write 15 min. writing prompt at the Grind Writers Group – writing to a painting in an exhibit at the gallery. Below the freewrite version is a version that has been further revised, for comparison purposes. 

The paintings are on display until the end of June. We invite you to write to one of the paintings and send it to grindwriters@gmail.com for posting here.


Everyman 
first version June 11, 2011

Everyman stares out

Of  black eyes, focused inwards

Looking inwards (outwards)

Staring out of sunken sockets in his

Weathered face,

Naked form gathered in on his self

Oblivious to the audience

Of stunned discomfort

Embracing the sight

Of he lost in (his) life’s storm

They sheltered in their clothes

And small minds

Shunned by others

Who turn their backs

Viewed with scorn

By narrow minded pouting lips

Everyman stares out of black eyes

Unfocused eyes, looking inward eyes

Scared eyes, angry eyes.

Staring out at an angry world

Bewildered to be at the centre of the storm

Unable to weather the daily comings and goings

Finally left exposed to the world,

Naked, body drawn in on itself

Inside he hears acceptance

Raison d’etre

I understand whence you come from my son

I know your pain

I know the worth of you

More and less than you think

More and less than others say

Walk the line

Do not dally or they will pull you down

Creativity lost and found


_____________________

(c)2011 Lesley Prentis

Everyman

June 16, 2011 (initial re-working)

Everyman stares

Out from black eyes focused inward

Looking inward? (Outwards)

Stares from the sunken sockets

Of his weathered face

His naked form gathered in on himself

Oblivious to his audience

Of stunned discomfort who

Embrace the sight

Of HE lost in (his) life’s storm

They sheltered in their clothes

And their small minds

Whilst he shunned by others

Who viewed with scorn

And narrow minded pouting lips

Who turn their backs

On his unspoken needs.

Everyman stares

Out from black eyes, looking inward eyes

Scared eyes, angry eyes

Stares out at an angry world

Suddenly aware, bewildered

To be the centre of the storm

Unable to weather the daily comings and goings

Finally left exposed to the world

Naked, body drawn in on himself

Everyman stares

Out from black eyes focused inward

Inside he hears acceptance

Raison d’etre

The words

I know whence you come from my son

I know your pain

I know the worth of you

More and less than you think

More and less than others say

Walk the line

Carefully

Do not step on the cracks

Do not dally, do not pay heed

Creativity lost and found.


.

The less you wear...

A scene that came from a free-write 15 min. writing prompt at the Grind Writers Group – writing to a painting in an exhibit at the gallery. The paintings are on display until the end of June.

-I have a secret, Gloria whispered.

-We don’t have secrets…well, not since grade two…

-I’ve something to tell you, Sandra…it’s important.

-OK, slow down, breathe…you’re not… (checking out tummy area)

-No, it’s not that…I’ve…

-Gloria, you’re not seeing him again??

-No!  Just listen.

-Ok, ok, shoot…

-I’ve got a new job…

-Well, that’s fantastic!  What’s the big deal?

-It’s how I’m earning…

-Oh God, no…Look, if staying at my place helps…

-Why do you always think the worst?!  Not that!

-What then?

-I’m modeling.

-Models make great money. What?--designer clothes, lingerie…?

-Less.

-Less what, money?  Models make great money…you know 
  the rule of less?

-What’s that?

-The less you wear, the more you make.

-Not in this case.

-Why not?

-I wear nothing…except maybe some drapery--a scarf, a discretely
  placed cushion or bolster…

-How does that work?

-Well, I show up…

-Where?

-At the figurative art studio.

-Then what happens…who’s there…do they watch?…is it seedy?

-Stop!! (laughing)

-Do they play burlesque music?

-Sandy! (exasperated) No!! I go to the bathroom.

-To throw up?  Nerves?

-No, to change…

-Oh.

-Then I wear my robe between poses.

-How long’s the session?

-Well, at first they’re short one, two, five and ten-minute poses.

-Do you move around?  Show me one of your poses.

-Ta da! (posing)

-Doesn’t your ‘hoohoo’ show?

-Look, it’s not an issue…

-Since when isn’t your ‘hoohoo’ an issue?

-They’re sitting all around me. I’m on a small, raised platform with locked wheels.

-Do you get to look at their work?

-At the twenty-minute break, I sometimes circulate…it’s…wonderful.

-Respectful?

-Absolutely…one guy even gave me his half hour sketch.

-That’s a long time to hold a pose…

-You choose that one carefully…

-Show me…(demonstrating) hmmm, I don’t think I could hold that for thirty minutes.

-Never know ’til you try, Sandy, never know til you try.  Check out the model 
  requirements on   their website!  It’s not easy money, but it’s fun!

-Not on your life!  (dissolving to laughter)

(c)2011 Joan Boxall

kjbox@telus.net
.

The Supportive Wife

A story that came from a free-write 15 min. writing prompt at the Grind Writers Group – writing to a painting in an exhibit at the gallery. The paintings are on display until the end of June.

____________________________________________

            Stella stood shocked, shaking, then slumped into a chair, setting her sherry down on a nearby table. For an instant she thought it might drop out of her trembling fingers and the last thing she wanted to do now was draw more attention to herself. She looked around her, as she reeled at the revelation that had just washed over her and she saw Terrence across the room, preening. He had not made eye contact with her when she came in. She had thought that strange, but now---now she understood.

            “He’s got such a bright open palette,” she heard a man saying to his companion.

            “Yes,” she heard the companion reply. “He’s a combination of Cézanne and Picasso.”

“And a little Matisse on the side,” the man said, pointing at No. 44 with his wineglass.

The comment swirled around her. Stella breathed in deeply, deliberately. Yes, Picasso—one infidelity after another… But this—

At that moment Terrence glanced in her direction. In a flash of a moment and even in her state of tremulousness, she saw him take her presence in and in such a brief flash that she could almost have believed she imagined it, she saw that gleam of malicious satisfaction—and then it was gone, papered over with a social smile to someone who had tapped his arm and asked him a question. Did he know she had caught it?

Stella finished her sherry and got up. She perambulated the room again. There it was up on the wall for everyone to see. In every painting featuring Stella, she had her back to the viewer and he had portrayed her as chunky, old and fat. Nos. 42 – 60 – 23 – 16 – 34 – 38. And, no mistaking it, in the rest of the paintings was the beautiful, younger woman who stood beside him now at the opening. Stella did not know her name but she knew enough from her wife’s instincts of twenty-three years.

Some knowing force caused her to look Terrence’s way just as the women, the naked subject in all his other paintings, was regarding her.

Stella felt a presence sidling up to her: her sister-in-law, Helen, Terrence’s brother’s wife.  “Stella—hiding here when you should be in the limelight with Ter?”

Was she being ironic? did she know? was she rubbing salt into the wounds? it was hard to tell; they’d never been the best of friends.

“I—uh—”

“I just heard someone compare Ter to the German Expressionists—how darling! I bet you know the difference between the French and the German Expressionists – and even between the Impressionists and the Expressionists, not like we Philistines, Stella!” Helen gave a champagne giggle.

Stella waited a beat. As always Helen was only asking rhetorically; she didn’t want any answers. “And who is that captivating European woman—I mean obviously she’s the model, but do you know her? Ter introduced me but I didn’t get the name—vaguely Czech-sounding or Eastern European. I think you are the most understanding spouse to let him spend all that time with someone twenty years younger…”

Helen’s words were getting lost in the packed room’s dialogue. “….dancing pastels maintain a precarious balance…”—A woman Stella recognized as an art critic.

Stella thought she might pass out. She was standing again in front of No. 60. He’d called it “Portrait of a Marriage.” It was she, back to the room, sitting naked and fat, fatter than she was in real life, with big bulges all over. It was such an unloving portrait. She recognized herself by the hairstyle. His model had cascading black hair in the paintings and here in real life, across this crowded hot room, long black hair she was sweeping back over her shoulder now as Stella regarded her. It was that gesture women with long hair make, where they sweep their hair off their face and shake it backwards, over and over when they are talking to a man, another kind of preening.

Stella’s grey hair in the painting was in a braided bun coiled around the nape of her neck like a serpent.

It was always the hair.

Her hand went to the nape of her neck and cupped the heavy bun. She had wanted to cut her hair years ago and had brought it up several times over the last ten years. He’d always said, “I like it that way. Why would you want to cut your hair, darling?”

She thought of her scissors back home.

________________________________

(c)2011 Margo Lamont

wonderwords@shaw.ca

.

Pix of the open mic at the Fed. BC Writers AGM social

http://vimeo.com/23713532

Grind Writers meeting dates 2011

Please email me before you attend, as we sometimes move the venue - wonderwords@shaw.ca.

Sun May 29

Sat June 11

Sun June 26

Sat July

Sun July 24

Sat Aug 6

Sun Aug 21

Sat Sept 10

Sun Sept 18

Sat Oct 1

Sun Oct 16

Sat Oct 29

Sun Nov 13

Sat Nov 26

Sun Dec 11

AMBER STONES by Lilija Valis

Amber has been washing up

on Baltic beaches a long time:

pine-resin preserved life,

Ice-Aged for posterity

— a leaf, an insect —

connecting us to a past

millions of years back,

turning it into gold —

Gintaras is what they call it,

(the Greeks named it “electron”)

made into jewelry, it has been

traded since 7000 B.C.

associated with the Sun God,

the Awakener, symbol

of happiness and healing,

purifying and protecting,

it permeates the body with light

the Baltic coast dwellers,

people of the sacred stone,

older than history,

dedicated themselves

to guarding the Sacred Fire,

through centuries of invasions,

deportations and forced conversions

by the stronger and more numerous,

they kept the Sacred Fire burning,

as did the Persian Zoroastrians,

something ancient

and essential to life,

hiding and shielding it

from the changing winds,

taking it with them

to the corners of this earth.

© 2011 Lilija Valis

E:  lilijavalis@gmail.com

REAL by Lilija Valis

          Someone was asked if there were any real atheists.
         Do you think, he answered, that there are any real Christians?
                                                                 — Denis Diderot (1713-1784)

Is anyone real?

I mean, is anyone One?

Or does everyone

and everything

have the opposite mixed in?

A saint commits a sin,

a criminal acts generously,

a soldier brings about peace,

a pacifist invites war.

Good can produce bad,

and bad bring forth good.

Certainly carries doubt.

Love can turn to hate in a split second

and hate can fall into love

against the will of the both.

Maybe that works best.

Don’t blame me.

I didn’t create the world.

Though I did my part

in reshaping society

and, forgive me, if it’s not

all the better for it.


© 2011 Lilija Valis

E:  lilijavalis@gmail.com

Wine & Write with Grind Writers - May 20, 7pm

Wine & Write

“Ernest Hemingway loved the Mojito, William Faulkner had his mint juleps, and F. Scott Fitzgerald was convinced gin was the way to go (he thought its smell would be undetectable on his breath).” ~NPR

Could a little sip from the bottle help all of us writers? We’ll find out at an experimental Wine Tasting/Writer’s Workshop on Friday, May 20 at 7pm.

We’ll sniff and sip before we get set on a variety of writing journeys. There will be reading aloud of stories, but don’t worry, the wine should unleash your confidence, inhibitions, and brilliance… or so this is the thought. Very experimental! Definitely fun! I will be leading this as the writing facilitator.

When the wine is in, the wit is out

~Proverb floating around the Internet

I guess we’ll find out.

*Seating is limited so please sign up early to save your spot.

When	Friday, May 20, 7 to 9pm
Where	Harvest Table, Legacy Liquor Store (yes, a liquor store with a beautiful wooden table where we can sip and write). 1633 Manitoba Street in Olympic Village. Five minute walk from Science World/Main Street Skytrain.
Cost	$25 for Wine, Bread and Cheese
Who	Who: For writers and aspiring writers led by writer and writing facilitator Gloria Chang (www.gloriachang.com)
How	How: Sign up through Gloria’s recently launched meetup group for eaters and drinkers: www.meetup.com/culinary-adventures-vancouver Or send Gloria an email: gloria@gloriachang.com
What to bring	A notebook and pen or laptop to write on.

  

Here’s a link to a special web feature by NPR on writers and their cocktails

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6624971

More info:   Gloria Chang

E:   gloria@gloriachang.com
T:   www.twitter.com/gloriajchang

Vachon to Seattle Grey by Pamela Swanson

vashon to seattle grey

stone and tarmac muttering –

a shopping day of here to there

garlic oranges apples peas –

a windless rain of back forth  -

ferry hopping groceries –

the streets are washed to half a pace

carrots lettuce yogurt tea

from paper shops to cutting boards –

the giant man still hammering

a steady background silhouette

for lemon juice and anise seeds

the banks are closed against the fog

on this monday eastering

through memories of here and not –

avocados broccoli –

my mother born a sigh away

inside the Swedish hospital

more than eighty years before

bananas ice cream cinnamon –

i feel an echo of her now

in videos that cross my eyes

reweaving ancient yesterdays

vanilla coffee envelopes –

and as i pause a waiting breath

between the stops of here and there

i almost see her smiling

seattle rains and postage stamps.

(c)2011 Pamela Swanson

E:    pam@poetpam.com
W:  http://www.poetpam.com/