An Artist Knows
To sketch or paint
a proper egg
darken the middle
Painters call this core shadow
where light ends & shadow begins
I was 21 & he came from behind
sweat-soaked shirt tied over my face
made dusk even darker
Mona Lisa’s face & décolletage
would not appear lustrous or pearly
if not for the sludge-hued
shading just under her sharp jaw
He beat me with the sharp
heel of his work shoe
a new tincture of dark
Night of near-death
scabs & crusted blood
police reports & mugshots
I burned my clothes
Saved three clods of mud
that were stuck to my jeans
in a gold lacquer box
For 25 years I left
the lights on at night
& still there’s quicksand
in my body’s memory
Sometimes I can’t move
I forget to breathe
the undertow overwhelming
it pulls me into the black center
like wet cement
An artist knows it takes time to learn
what greatly illuminates
It is critical to include the blackest
part of the shadow
I tell myself it’s only a whirlpool dream
& wake up before the concrete thickens
My muscles remember
there are good reasons to move
Move for the sweet smell of gumbo
simmering on low
for the dark garden dirt
for the shadow that ignites
& reveals light
6 thoughts on "An Artist Knows"
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especially loving the final couplet “…..for the dark garden dirt, for the shadow that ignites & reveals light”.
not to get especially deep here, but I’m reminded of Thich Nhat Hanh, Vietnamese monk, saying “no mud, no lotus.”
it’s a truth, beautiful and painful to accept. thank you for your words today. candid.
This is very powerful, Linda. Thank you.
This is beautiful, Linda!
“before the concrete thickens” strikes a chord in your amazing poem.
What a haunting, powerful poem.
This poem is gripping, and I like how you use the line “new tincture of dark” to bring the artist into the painful, excruciating experience. Thank you for sharing.