the canvas
is a perfect sphere
about four feet in diameter
floating over the floor of my studio
that i don’t have a studio
or have ever seen a canvas sphere
let alone
one floating
three feet over
the paint-spattered marble floor
doesn’t matter
because
this is
a dream
the painter
i think it’s me
long brush in hand
is dabbing the surface of the sphere
with iridescent blue paint
that turns green
the moment it touches
the shimmering canvas
in the corner
on the counter
a tea kettle
is boiling away
on a single electric burner
and an old-fashioned radio
at the far end
of the counter
is playing bach
interpreted by joni mitchell
radio big and wooden like the ones
my grandparents had
when i was a kid
a kid
the image of one
begins to slowly appear
on the sphere
i think i know him
i think i know
who I’m painting
it’s uncle henry
my deaf great uncle
who designed wallpaper
for a living
and painted landscapes and portraits
none of which i have anymore
but i have his tools
both in the dream and in waking
and yes it is uncle henry who i’m painting
a little boy back in Russia
way back
in the early nineteen hundreds
in my studio
i dance around the sphere
thinking of uncle henry’s rectangular paintings
framed in ornate wooden frames
he carved himself
and i think of how
it was on uncle henry’s lap
when i was eight days old
that i was carved away
of a foreskin
and how
dying of cancer
he spent the last afternoon
of his life
cradled in my scrawny arms
there is no fore or after
in this poem
but
there is a boy become a man
appearing in a forest
after he dies
a forest that begins to grow
up and out from the sphere
and i pause
and i ask myself
what’s going on here?
as the sphere
grows larger
and i grow
smaller
and uncle henry
beneath the towering trees
becomes
a tall elegant woman
i know is named
Ree
and it’s she
Ree-Ann Ality
it is she
who is holding the brush now
and it is she
Ree
who is turning
to face me
in my bed
laughing
as i wake
to the dawn
of another day
hidden behind
dark curtains
as i wake
to the sphere
multicolored
drifting
to the hard cold
marble floor
of my un-studio
gone oval now
that’s painting
the depths of me
and then
slowly
slowly
slowly
beginning
to
un-
fold
Description of Work:
Reality Feinting
inspired by the prompt, over the course of several weeks, i found words and drawings flowing out from me about the dance that an artist does with dreams and reality. multilayered, like a canvas, the poem explores the unfolding of a dream that weaves in and out of my life, a long-dead uncle and reality herself, and ends with one of the drawings.
Description of Process:
i let words and images flow out of me, very like the way that dreams rise up in us. they shift and change over time, and i tinker with and add to them.
What Reality Is Painting
Reality sits in front of her easel
palette in hand
colors ranging from white to gold
from opalescent to ultraviolet and black
her smock is a galaxy
I am her upstairs maid
standing silently in the doorway
not wanting to disturb her
pot of steaming tea and her favorite mug
on a small silver tray in my hands
her bush is a palm tree
the bristles are
egrets
darting above a
virgin rainforest
brush paused
in her left hand
poised
I can make out
already
the jungle
trees
vines
clearing
in the distance
I’ve seen her paint this scene before
the man
in the background
Reality told me his name
Siddhartha
is slowly walking
toward
Ananda
who I see
from behind
in his long
pink
shining robe
I watch the way
Siddhartha
reaches out a hand
and places it
tenderly
on Ananda’s smiling
cheek
and I know
that this
left out of history
is why
he really
left his wife
and why
inspired by Kolita and Sariputra’s
devotion to each other
he is
finally
brave enough
now
to court
his handsome
cousin