Silk scarves and cigerette smoke

I had a blast last night. Peg had my two sisters and I over to her apartement to dye silk scarves anyway we wanted. We arrived and found the cutest little apartement with books and celtic themed things thrown all over. It was the home of a creative mind.

One thing amazes me about artists and writers in general. Poeple believe they can take writers and artists in a lump and label us, but when you take a closer look you find that we are nothing alike at all. Poetry and Art, like religion pulls us together and drives us apart. But we still feel more connection with each other because there is unity under the banner. So much fun, really.

We stenciled our scarves and allowed them to dry and then added color. I went with light blue, dark blue and white; virgin colors. I decided to write a poem about it quickly and than revise later. Here is the unrevised version.

The Madonna

he painted me as the virgin
my hands beneath my breasts
above my belly abundant with salvation
my eyes were full of mercy and rimmed by blackest kohl,
my lips were rimmed with love and parted for breath,
my feet was beautiful white soaked in cool water;
he painted me in white and blue and crowned
me with my own hair, coral black and oiled smooth
he made me more human than goddess
and so made me myself
in the image of God.


Let me know what you think?