Category Archives: Art

Wood, paper sculpture, pen and pencil…. not all mediums were made equal.

The Crow

I recently was lent a copy of The Diamond Age, a novel by Neal Stephenson which explores a fantasy-like future in which nanotechnology and cultural constructs reign supreme. It was in this unlikely (and thoroughly enjoyable) bundle of pages that I found an intriguing poem – “The Raven” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whom I had studied in my grade twelve Literature class.

As you can likely tell by the title of this post, the poem struck a chord with me. The following composition is based on Coleridge’s “The Raven”, with my own ideas thrown in for good measure.

Underneath a stout walnut tree
There was of swine a great company.
They grunted as they crunched the wood,
Which, not long after, no longer stood. Continue reading The Crow

Introverts Galore

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In addition to my semi regular Last Week’s Poetry feature, and my temporary series, The INTP’s Guide to Everyone Else, I’ve decided to start posting a series of comics I’ve been working on for the past few months. It’s another Myers-Briggs inspired thing, and I’ve decided to call it “Introverts Galore.” Because introverts. Lots of them.

Look for these comics on Sunday, and if you like what you see, please feel free to like, share, and/or comment. I ‘preciate it.

M.
Nov 13/16

The art of taking poor-quality photos

Look and think before opening the shutter. The heart and mind are the true lens of the camera.”
– Yousuf Karsh

It used to be that people would give me strange looks when I mentioned that I took pictures on my fourth-gen iPod. “Don’t you have a phone?” they would ask, slightly taken aback. “Does that work okay for you?”

While it’s true that many late millennials and generation Xers have easy access to the newest in technology Continue reading The art of taking poor-quality photos

The Canvas

This one’s slightly older, but I felt it was a good stand-in for this week. In my experience, this is how artists function.

Whenever I want to bleed
I can make
The canvas bleed instead

It seems cruel
Sometimes
To run it red

But then again
It cannot feel
The way skin feels

Or hurt the way
My head
And my nerves do

Whenever I want to bleed
I can make
The canvas bleed instead

It absorbs the stings
Of a thousand
Aching brushstrokes

And it cries with
Watered-down acrylic tears
On porous intimacy

And it heals itself
With layered blood
When ripped to pieces

M.
Feb 12/16
“The Waterserpent,” acrylic on paper

When There Are No Words

When the world isn’t the way it’s
supposed to be
my head
– my mouth –
They aren’t either.

We spit up empty lies
– I’m just glad you said it
like it was –
and my thoughts
Shit,
I didn’t notice they
turned into my feelings.

I can swear as long as it’s a poem,
right?
This isn’t wrong
– I’ll tell you what is:
Everything.

Fucking life.

I would like to
(thankyouverymuch)
live a certain kind of lie.

I love being this thing
some would call “unique”
I love it,
but cut out the scene where
she dies of cancer.

Cut out the scars that
never faded
– cut them out with
a sterile needle
and paste in the credits, rolling
like this is just another damn dream.

Cut out the garbage
words like
“abuse”
“depression”
“intelligent”

I like being intelligent, but
sometimes I like it too much.

Cut out my heart –
Shit, hold up –
put it back inside
my hollow chest.

There’s no way anyone can
mend this sort of damage
– not with words, anyways –
and I thank God
that you said you wouldn’t try.

It’s not right to say things,
empty things.

It’s not right to compare who’s
worse off, because
we all are.

It’s not right to say I can’t grieve
as if I had
a fucking chance
to change all this.

You’re damn right in saying
that swearing is wrong.

But sometimes there are no words –
and when there are no words
I use them all.

M.
Mar 4/16
acrylic on canvas, Feb/16

This is not a Rose

In 1929, Rene Magritte revolutionized the way people saw images by painting “The Treachery of Images” – a painting of a pipe with the words “Ceci n’est pas une pipe.” (this is not a pipe) underneath. The message is incredibly profound: what you see is not a pipe. It is simply an image of a pipe.

For this week’s Last Week’s Poetry, I wrote a piece that deals with similar thoughts. We attribute so much meaning to different things, and often our meaning stems not from the thing itself, but from how it is presented and what we associate with it.

This Rose

This rose is not a rose so much as it
is freedom in a flower given me
while I pursue the light of roses lit
and burning as they’re rent from their home tree

This rose is not a rose because it’s red
It’s not a flower for its petaled sight
I cherish it for things you showed and said
instead of loving it for its own light

This rose is not a rose I still declare
It may be fair, it may be bright and still
but roses for their own sake own no flair
They merely grow and prick my hands at will

This rose is not a rose because I love
this rose more than the flowers bunched that day
For none did meet my hands, which held above
were empty in their own thorn-broken way

But know this rose is much more than a rose
because you were the one who handed me
this rose, already falling like it knows
that destined things don’t always have to be

But destined things mean more when we decide
to take them in our hands though they bear thorns
that prick us and make us give up our pride
and weather love through hardship and through storms

This rose is not a rose but like myself
it clings to you; it needs no earthly wealth

M.
Oct 12/15, henna on skin, GIMP edits added