# The Catch



## Celeste Barwick (Mar 21, 2011)

I'm looking for a poetic interpretation of the attached painting, "The Catch", by Andrea Kowch. This is for a personal project that I'm working on (an online art, poetry, and literary magazine). If you have the time, please post your poem in the reply field of this thread. I'm looking forward to reading your replies!


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## bearycool (Mar 22, 2011)

To me. the person appears to be a girl, so I went along with that. The birds appear to have been "exiting" the cage instead of entering it. Anyway, this is what I based my poem on.

Once in a gray twilight,
in a field where a lone chair
was placed in a meadow not known
to many,
there appeared a women.

She carried her Life 
in her hands, her appearance
worned, yet beaming

the air flew towards Her,
for it know why she had
come.

Her hair tossed into
a fire of redden locks.
She then sat in the meadow's chair
and transfixed her gaze
to a spot
that was far and neverending. 

Oh the wind, how it
grasped her hair and
made her young again. 
Slowly churning it in its hands.

She took a breath
and felt her Life.

It was trapped in
an ashen caged where
it swamed with dark colors

She had to
set it free...
No more holding dear
to times of old!

Her calloused hands turned
the rusted knob, oh how it creaked,
and kept watching
far away as her burderns burst
all around.

They flew,
oh yes how her Life
flew! The wind pushed it
along all around her

and, oh, how her hair blazed!

Winding, turning, churning
feeling so free that they became birds
of night

and so they went,
free from
the cage of old.

She kept still and
silent as they moved around her,
but she felt light coming into her
that was dim
but growing

for she was free
also!
And so her eyes turn
light like her hair
for she would be
alive once again!

All this, in a gray time and place
where the 
grass had always swayed
and that would soon
see dawn, and the full
light of day...


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## Celeste Barwick (Mar 24, 2011)

Bearycool, I love your interpretation! You gave the subject an  interesting back story. The last stanza is my favorite. It flows nicely.  I may be in contact with you about using a portion of this for my  art/literary 'zine. Thanks so much for taking the time to write this!


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## Squalid Glass (Mar 25, 2011)

*Skin Grows Old*
_After Andrea Kowch_


Erasherhead
sits straight recluse
grass is swaying
birds let loose

from a cage 
the chair did hold
a hue-less sky
skin grows old.

Pinky up
face abstruse
blood red coat
birds disabused

out of a cage
the chair did hold
a hue-less sky
skin grows old.


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## Celeste Barwick (Mar 25, 2011)

Squalid, you did a really beautiful job of translating this into poetry! Thank you very much for taking the time to do this. I'll be in contact with you through PM here on the forum. The third stanza is my favorite..."abstruse" and "disabused"...sigh.


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## SilverMoon (Mar 28, 2011)

*Emalyne*

Beneath a heavenless 
sloppy grey sky
she sits, strictly,
like a dead-end debutante
in mother’s dining chair.

Emalyne, affixed to a field
blown by the breath
of a beast matters not.
She knows 
of greater dreads.

Pressed near her heart,
with a thousand black marks,
the door of a birdcage
she unfastens 
after the strength grew up.

You can hear the caw 
of crows flying eastward,
heartless black marks,
now clawing the firmament.

Emalyne waits a wicked time
for a dove to enter.


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## Celeste Barwick (Mar 28, 2011)

I absolutely love your interpretation, Laurie! There are so many lovely lines, but these have to be my favorites:_

"Pressed near her heart,
with a thousand black marks,
the door of a birdcage
she unfastens 
after the strength grew up."
_
The words that you've chosen really strengthen the image of the painting. I'll be in touch._..
_


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## bearycool (Mar 30, 2011)

So, how is going with the magazine?


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## Celeste Barwick (Apr 3, 2011)

It's going well. Just got back from a mini vacation, and I have a ton of submissions to read through (which is a very, very good thing)! I really appreciate everyone's contributions, especially with this particular segment. I know that Andrea Kowch will be thrilled to read all of them! Thanks for asking, Josef.


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## Nenada (Apr 5, 2011)

I hope this is not too late....

The Catch

Cracked open like a ribcage;
Out of the heart's door flies
A thousand tales on a thousand wings.

Her red coat, padding shoulders
That sag with the weakness of her command.
If there is no response to her call,
She should lose them all
But there is no freedom to consider such a thing.

She never moves her buried legs
Two sentinels on which she will stand her cause.
And the spareness of her face,
Waits to see 
Which of her little heart soldiers
Will return - 
Which must be replaced.



I think I ran out of steam a little there at the end, but it was a fun challenge....thank you Celeste for the opportunity, and I hope the magazine goes well.


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## Celeste Barwick (Apr 5, 2011)

Nenada, this is a beautiful piece! The story that you've painted is lovely. The last stanza is actually my favorite, and a very strong ending. Thank you for taking the time to respond to the challenge. It's definitely not too late. The site/magazine won't launch until mid may.


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## Nenada (Apr 6, 2011)

Ah, thanks Celeste!  That's really made my day


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## TheFuhrer02 (Apr 6, 2011)

Celeste Barwick said:


> The site/magazine won't launch until mid may.


 
Cool! Looks like I still have the time to post a poem!


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## bearycool (Apr 19, 2011)

So how goes the magazine?


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## toddm (Apr 19, 2011)

*The Keeper of the Cage*

The winds were stirred 
by the wings of 
a hundred thousand
raging crows
not one of which
would ever stop
and consider life
inside a brass
wire-cage 
constructed
for weak-hearted
canary-types who 
never flew in
open-skies
when autumn storms
stir roaring winds ~
Fly and flee
the keeper of
the cage ~


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## ramatheson (Apr 20, 2011)

"Ink Feather"

Cold, 
he spins his flight in polio stance 
prisoner of wicker women, 
carved tree cadavers, 
pitch, 
form the framework. 

The hungry soil spins tendrils up, 
green and carnivorous, 
pierce foot sole,
(parlors lacking sanitization) 
drink up the scarlet cream of life. 

Like a pearl, 
he is forever frozen, 
and so he lets Chinese Organ Clock go haywire, 
escapes through brittle bone of steel cage.


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## bearycool (May 28, 2011)

I know this is kind of grave digging, but I'm curious after remembering this. How is all of this going?


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## Chesters Daughter (May 28, 2011)

Beary, dear, this is the third time you have resurrected this thread. Kindly refrain from doing so again. You could have easily sent Celeste a PM to make your inquiry. Bringing this back to the top so many times just to ask how it's going is extremely inconsiderate as it pushes new work to page two prematurely. I really should not be bumping this myself, but since it's at the top, no harm no foul. Please DO NOT bump the thread in response to me. Should you care to respond, please PM me. Thank you for your kind consideration now and for the future.

Best,
Lisa


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