Monet's The Magpie, 1872
A house behind trees, steep-pitched roof, red chimneys, fence and gate horizontal at the scene's centre— caesura from white, silver, gold snow which cushions, catches in crooks. Swirled strokes convey layers, echo arched tree limbs. On the top rung of a warped gate a magpie basks, beak cocked in silhouette, tail feathers angled right, same as shadows that point to the canvas bottom corner where Monet's signature slants. Past the magpie's umbra, dark tracks (boot or hoof) walk off the painting, invite you to enter, feet tingling. Distant fields stretch, fuse with sky, late day sun unseen reflects from every surface onto your face imprinting. Karen George Karen George is author of the poetry collection Swim Your Way Back (Dos Madres Press, 2014), and four chapbooks, most recently The Fire Circle (Blue Lyra Press, 2016). Her work has appeared in America, Adirondack Review, Naugatuck River Review, Louisville Review, and Still. She reviews poetry and interviews poets at Poetry Matters: http://readwritepoetry.blogspot.com/, and is co-founder and fiction editor of the journal, Waypoints: http://www.waypointsmag.com/. Her website is: http://karenlgeorge.snack.ws/.
1 Comment
10/23/2016 09:06:35 pm
Karen, this poem is especially poignant. Have you ever heard the old saw, "You've got the face for radio." Certainly not a compliment, even though funny. But I've one for you which is a compliment: You have the words for radio. You make me see and sense the scene without the painting. What a gift.
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