Heated pavements, scalded skies in
August's stony caldron, cannot choke
the bluing glowing bright within
the pall of heat; it's lolling
there, where words
are air.
As the August heat beats down, there is a
golden clarity that settles onto objects, so
that their very reality is intensified. I
find the same clarified, pure light in
the spare paintings of artist
I see a correlation between the concentration
of these still life paintings and the writing of
poetry; there is arrangement and a narrowing
down of choices. There is the energy of the thing itself in its remarkable focus.
______________________
August's Editorial
Turning Toward The Light
Giving The Poem What It Needs
by ruffledpanties
_____________________
