Sign up to save your podcasts
Or
Share Bricklayer by Katrina Kaye
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Or
Bricklayer by Katrina Kaye
Bricklayer Katrina Kaye This poem was first published in Catching Calliope Vol 2, 2014.
I want to be a bricklayer;something concreteas opposed to just impression.
I want to learn to draw hands with accuracy.To show precision in the etch of knuckles,shaded in darkness.There was never enough color.
There are so manyways to look at one thing:
a church is violet against the changing sky,the horizon set on fire into the back fall.
September sun crests different overthe yellow fields of the eastthan the dirt of the city at dawn.
I prefer to paint at night.
I sketch my father twice,struggling to do justice to therashes on the tips of fingers,
but my messages do not form easy.The images I cross outare more vital than those kept.
Instead of laying brick,I layer strokes of finely charred sulfur lemonremoving the bright from the dark.Pile one on top of the other.
Inspiration turns illusiveafter the initial thread is cut,displayed, set aside.
Too much coffee and wine,too many sleepless nights,strung too high.Obsessed with ideal.
It is no wonder I always staggered home alone.
Unable to abandon canvas and easeluntil the obtainment of perfection.
But how many masterpieces canone man create?
It is only a matter of timebefore I slip from the wall.
A chest wound,self-inflicted,in a field of wheat,like so many I painted.
Surrounded by somethingI findbeautiful.
I want to be a bricklayer;something concreteas opposed to just impression.
I want to learn to draw hands with accuracy.To show precision in the etch of knuckles,shaded in darkness.There was never enough color.
There are so manyways to look at one thing:
a church is violet against the changing sky,the horizon set on fire into the back fall.
September sun crests different overthe yellow fields of the eastthan the dirt of the city at dawn.
I prefer to paint at night.
I sketch my father twice,struggling to do justice to therashes on the tips of fingers,
but my messages do not form easy.The images I cross outare more vital than those kept.
Instead of laying brick,I layer strokes of finely charred sulfur lemonremoving the bright from the dark.Pile one on top of the other.
Inspiration turns illusiveafter the initial thread is cut,displayed, set aside.
Too much coffee and wine,too many sleepless nights,strung too high.Obsessed with ideal.
It is no wonder I always staggered home alone.
Unable to abandon canvas and easeluntil the obtainment of perfection.
But how many masterpieces canone man create?
It is only a matter of timebefore I slip from the wall.
A chest wound,self-inflicted,in a field of wheat,like so many I painted.
Surrounded by somethingI findbeautiful.
More from Katrina Kaye ↓
- @poetkatrinakaye on Instagram, Threads, and BlueSky
- Her website: poetkatrinakaye
- Her chapbook No Longer Water is available through Echobird Press
Mentioned in this episode:
Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️
🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️
View all episodes
By Maggie DeversBricklayer Katrina Kaye This poem was first published in Catching Calliope Vol 2, 2014.
I want to be a bricklayer;something concreteas opposed to just impression.
I want to learn to draw hands with accuracy.To show precision in the etch of knuckles,shaded in darkness.There was never enough color.
There are so manyways to look at one thing:
a church is violet against the changing sky,the horizon set on fire into the back fall.
September sun crests different overthe yellow fields of the eastthan the dirt of the city at dawn.
I prefer to paint at night.
I sketch my father twice,struggling to do justice to therashes on the tips of fingers,
but my messages do not form easy.The images I cross outare more vital than those kept.
Instead of laying brick,I layer strokes of finely charred sulfur lemonremoving the bright from the dark.Pile one on top of the other.
Inspiration turns illusiveafter the initial thread is cut,displayed, set aside.
Too much coffee and wine,too many sleepless nights,strung too high.Obsessed with ideal.
It is no wonder I always staggered home alone.
Unable to abandon canvas and easeluntil the obtainment of perfection.
But how many masterpieces canone man create?
It is only a matter of timebefore I slip from the wall.
A chest wound,self-inflicted,in a field of wheat,like so many I painted.
Surrounded by somethingI findbeautiful.
I want to be a bricklayer;something concreteas opposed to just impression.
I want to learn to draw hands with accuracy.To show precision in the etch of knuckles,shaded in darkness.There was never enough color.
There are so manyways to look at one thing:
a church is violet against the changing sky,the horizon set on fire into the back fall.
September sun crests different overthe yellow fields of the eastthan the dirt of the city at dawn.
I prefer to paint at night.
I sketch my father twice,struggling to do justice to therashes on the tips of fingers,
but my messages do not form easy.The images I cross outare more vital than those kept.
Instead of laying brick,I layer strokes of finely charred sulfur lemonremoving the bright from the dark.Pile one on top of the other.
Inspiration turns illusiveafter the initial thread is cut,displayed, set aside.
Too much coffee and wine,too many sleepless nights,strung too high.Obsessed with ideal.
It is no wonder I always staggered home alone.
Unable to abandon canvas and easeluntil the obtainment of perfection.
But how many masterpieces canone man create?
It is only a matter of timebefore I slip from the wall.
A chest wound,self-inflicted,in a field of wheat,like so many I painted.
Surrounded by somethingI findbeautiful.
More from Katrina Kaye ↓
- @poetkatrinakaye on Instagram, Threads, and BlueSky
- Her website: poetkatrinakaye
- Her chapbook No Longer Water is available through Echobird Press
Mentioned in this episode:
Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️
🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️