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Secrets, 2013, Amy Antin. Acrylic on Wood Panel. 63 x 63 cm



THE BLOG

is a page of assorted lyrics, poems and paintings I've felt moved to share. The focus is on creativity in various genres. There will also be thoughts and opinions about the creative process and its results.


I will try to update weekly, so do check in from time to time for new blog posts.







The Letter, 2019. Acrylic on Wood Panel. 40 x 40 cm


POST 9 / September 6, 2021


It was a beautiful fall day, and I had arrived with the Thalys in Paris for a two day visit, a stop over on my way to NYC. Upon arriving at the station, I felt envigorated and decided to walk down to Boulevard St. Germain des Prés, and then take a taxi to Boulogne, where I would stay at my friend Anne’s home for two days.

The walk felt more like flight, so much to see and the sky so blue, and the streets flew by. When I reached St. Germain des Prés, I decided to make a short stop before going on. I glanced quickly at the menu in the vitrine at Les Deux Magots, finding the prices exorbitant. So I opted to walk a few doors further down the Boulevard, ending up at considerable less attractive bar, where I stayed as briefly as would be considered polite, and then left for Boulogne.

The following evening I had tickets to the theatre, up near Montmartre, where I would meet Anne. I had spent the day walking around the city, and had stopped in at St. Sulpice. One of my favorite churches in Paris, I lit a candle and felt moved, a subtle wave of happiness and peace washed over me. I walked out and back down the steps of the church, finding that my marche aléatoire brought me slowly back to Boulevard St. Germain, again in front of Les Deux Magots. I looked once more at the menu from outside, and realized this time that what I had been reading the day before and found so over-priced was indeed the Champagne menu. I laughed at myself and walked in, sat down, ordered a glass of champagne because why not, and a salad.

As I waited for my meal I thought, where is the Paris I knew then, the one of the stylish bohemians and rumpled intellectuals, sexy bookishness and graceful verbality? Where was the France of all those films I’d seen in my twenties, when I myself wore a long black cashmere coat and carried on about just about everything and anything? Combing the large room with my gaze, I was disappointed to see what I imagined were mainly tourists and young people, unfamiliar with the Paris of those days.

I finished my meal and the not in vain glass of champagne, paid and got up to leave. As I approached the large wooden framed glass door (was it not a revolving door, I’m not sure) an older man entered, in a very long camel hair coat, with an equally long bright red cashmere scarf in a spiral around his neck. He walked with a lovely dark wooden cane and there was joy in his face, and a twinkle in his eye. Ah, I thought to myself, that’s it, that’s the France I knew. La belle France!

I noticed that there was no one there to greet him. No owner, no maître d’ to greet and seat him as was wont a restaurant in France. How impolite, I thought. Here we are in the Les Deux Magots, here is a real Frenchman of stature, and no one to greet him.

Almost unconsciously, as he drew closer I opened my arms as if I were the owner, and he fell into them like a very dear, old friend. We hugged for a what seemed like quite long time, especially for perfect strangers. I imagine it was his wife who soon stood next to us, with a half-smile and maybe a wish to have her presence felt. He and I let go of each other, but he continued to hold me with his two arms on my arms, as they do in France, and we looked into each other’s eyes, grinning from ear to ear.

Slowly it must have occured to him that we weren’t old friends, and perhaps he didn’t know me at all, and at exactly the same pace it dawned on me that this, my dear old gentleman friend was in fact Jean-Paul Belmondo. Both a bit surprised, we said a few polite words to each other and went our separate ways.

I will never forget his warmth, the loving way he opened arms and heart, at the very same time.

Rest in peace, my friend.


POST 9 / September 6, 2021
(German Translation)

Es war ein wunderschöner Herbsttag, und ich war mit dem Thalys für einen zweitägigen Besuch in Paris angekommen, ein Zwischenstopp auf meinem Weg nach NYC. Als ich am Bahnhof ankam, fühlte ich mich gestärkt und beschloss, diesen zum Boulevard St. Germain des Prés zu laufen und dann ein Taxi nach Boulogne zu nehmen, wo ich zwei Tage bei meiner Freundin Anne bleiben würde.

Der Spaziergang fühlte sich eher wie ein Flug an, so viel zu sehen und der Himmel so blau, und die Straßen flogen vorbei. Als ich St. Germain des Prés erreichte, beschloss ich, kurz anzuhalten, bevor ich weiterfuhr. Ich warf einen schnellen Blick auf die Speisekarte in der Vitrine von Les Deux Magots und fand die Preise exorbitant. Also entschied ich mich, ein paar Türen weiter den Boulevard hinunterzugehen und landete in einer wesentlich weniger attraktiven Bar, wo ich so kurz blieb, wie es als höflich galt, und fuhr dann nach Boulogne.

Am nächsten Abend hatte ich Karten für das Theater in der Nähe von Montmartre, wo ich Anne treffen würde. Ich hatte den Tag damit verbracht, in der Stadt herumzulaufen, und hatte in St. Sulpice Halt gemacht. Eine meiner Lieblingskirchen in Paris, ich zündete eine Kerze an und fühlte mich bewegt, eine subtile Welle von Glück und Frieden überflutete mich. Ich ging hinaus und wieder die Stufen der Kirche hinunter und stellte fest, dass mein Marche Aléatoire mich langsam zurück zum Boulevard St. Germain führte, wieder vor Les Deux Magots. Ich schaute noch einmal von außen auf die Speisekarte und stellte diesmal fest, dass das, was ich am Vortag gelesen und so überteuert fand, tatsächlich die Champagnerkarte war. Ich lachte über mich selbst und ging hinein, setzte mich, bestellte ein Glas Champagner, warum nicht, und einen Salat.

Während ich auf mein Essen wartete, dachte ich, wo ist das Paris, das ich damals kannte, das der stilvollen Bohème und der zerknitterten Intellektuellen, der sexy Buchsucht und der anmutigen Wortwahl? Wo war das Frankreich von all den Filmen, die ich in meinen Zwanzigern gesehen hatte, als ich selbst einen langen schwarzen Kaschmirmantel trug und so ziemlich alles und alles weitermachte? Als ich den großen Raum mit meinem Blick verband, war ich enttäuscht zu sehen, dass ich mir hauptsächlich Touristen und junge Leute vorstellte, die das Paris dieser Tage nicht kannten.

Ich beendete mein Essen und das nicht umsonst Glas Champagner, bezahlte und stand auf, um zu gehen. Als ich mich der großen Glastür mit Holzrahmen näherte (war es keine Drehtür, ich bin mir nicht sicher), kam ein älterer Mann herein, in einem sehr langen Kamelhaarmantel, mit einem ebenso langen knallroten Kaschmirschal in einer Spirale um den Hals . Er ging mit einem schönen dunklen Holzstock, und in seinem Gesicht lag Freude und ein Funkeln in seinen Augen. Ah, dachte ich mir, das ist es, das ist das Frankreich, das ich kannte. La belle France!


Ich bemerkte, dass niemand da war, um ihn zu begrüßen. Kein Besitzer, kein Maître d’, um ihn zu begrüßen und zu platzieren, wie es in Frankreich in einem Restaurant üblich ist. Wie unhöflich, dachte ich. Hier sind wir im Les Deux Magots, hier ist ein echter Franzose von Statur, und niemand begrüßt ihn.


Fast unbewusst, als er näher kam, öffnete ich meine Arme, als ob ich der Besitzer wäre, und er fiel in sie wie ein sehr lieber alter Freund. Wir umarmten uns für eine ziemlich lange Zeit, besonders für vollkommen Fremde. Ich kann mir vorstellen, dass es seine Frau war, die bald neben uns stand, mit einem halben Lächeln und vielleicht dem Wunsch, ihre Anwesenheit spüren zu lassen. Er und ich ließen uns los, aber er hielt mich weiterhin mit seinen beiden Armen auf meinen Armen, wie sie es in Frankreich tun, und wir sahen uns grinsend in die Augen.


Langsam muss ihm eingefallen sein, dass wir tatsächlich keine alten Freunde waren, und vielleicht kannte er mich überhaupt nicht, und genauso schnell dämmerte es mir, dass dieser, mein lieber alter Freund, tatsächlich Jean-Paul Belmondo war. Beide etwas überrascht, sagten wir uns ein paar höfliche Worte und gingen unsere getrennte Wege.


Ich werde seine Wärme, die liebevolle Art und Weise, wie er gleichzeitig die Arme und sein Herz öffnete, nie vergessen.

Ruhe in Frieden mein Freund.



POST 8 / August 24th, 2021

(German translation below)



For my NRW Stipendium, I chose visual art as my genre. The project is to work with and write about my own artwork, interview others about it, and create short videos on this for my YouTube channel.

Thus I feel obliged to try to speak about Art, write about it. To walk the uneven trajectory of a tradition, resist the pressures of influence, enter the joy of play and avoid the heaviness of critical tone.

In tasks such as these, nuance can be a nuisance. It complicates things. And then there is the voice that says, Just tell it like it is and don’t look back.

Just as art constantly renews itself, so does the meta-language we use to observe, absorb and integrate the experience of it. Plagued by jargon, gimmicks and trends, the language we use has become too thin and transparent, we see through much of it too easily.

The observing subject, be it viewer, reader, painter or by extension the exhibition itself wanders from one focal point to another: I, we, the critic, the creator, the museum, gallery or public. Where, who and how we are while experiencing the work, along with traditions, perspectives and prejudices, all these are at work in the quantum act of focus.

So if where I find myself and my work within the greater conglomeration of signs determines my interpretation of them, to what extent can I be arbitrary, how far can I go in confronting the already existing paradigm as both viewer and creator of the work?

Several renown artists I’ve seen interviewed still hide behind the artist label, i.e. I had a difficult childhood, that is why I make the art I do, or the other party line, the ineffable nature of the creative experience; I don’t know how I do it, it just comes to me. Are we to believe that one can build a multi-million dollar career by just feeling one’s way through it?

Surely there have been and still are many clear-minded thinkers in the field. But are they showing their cards? What is the art game, what does it choose to demonstrate or camouflage? Important words like mystery or spirit are used, often as a catch-all for what is not said. One more way to get around the topic, while still looking good in a designer suit.

Still there is much to be said for these people. How they master the instrument that is their being in the world. They play the silences like an expert musician, holding your gaze with a cadence. Like a long note on the clarinet, both they and their work pull us in and release us, but how to describe all that?

And then of course, how much of this meta language is influenced by art as an industry? The critic, the gallerist, the collector and the artist are all cognizant the financial aspect of art, and the position we take within the hierarchy is telling.

Too often that which is radical, or even a mild catalyst, if not left to rot or dissipate entirely in speechlessness, ends up marginalized.

And is this not the same mechanism at play in climate change, human rights, in the world’s poor financial distribution? The appropriation of the meta-language by the established order is always dangerous in the long run. Deprive people of authentic expression, empty their words of authority, remove their ability to think and speak about things, and complete control becomes possible. The industrial abuse of animals is an example of this. Could cows speak, they might organize, subvert and usurp the structures that oppress them.


Oppression? Oh, now you’re going too far. After all, this is Art we’re talking about. It should be fun!

If our meta-language mimics the Marxist one, we will be pigeon holed, so better we return to silence. The emperor is anyway naked, and life goes on.

Until one day it doesn’t.

I wonder if there isn’t a new meta-language, one that can address the urgency of our times without bowing to the pressure of structures that attempt to repress the new. And where to begin, if sensitivity and authenticity are considered silly, inaccurate means of confronting and explaining creation?

I guess we’ll have to deal with that. For the alternative is as I said silence, control and the perpetuation of an insanity that brings the destruction of all sentient beings, as well as Art itself.



POST 8 / 24. August 2021 (GERMAN)

Für mein NRW-Stipendium habe ich bildende Kunst als mein Genre gewählt. Das Projekt besteht darin, mit meinen eigenen Kunstwerken zu arbeiten und darüber zu schreiben, andere darüber zu interviewen und kurze Videos dazu für meinen YouTube-Kanal zu erstellen.

Daher fühle ich mich verpflichtet, zu versuchen, über Kunst zu sprechen, darüber zu schreiben. Den unebenen Weg einer Tradition gehen, dem Druck des Einflusses widerstehen, in die Spielfreude eintauchen und die Schwere des kritischen Tons vermeiden.

Bei Aufgaben wie diesen können Nuancen lästig sein. Es verkompliziert die Dinge. Und dann ist da die Stimme, die sagt: Sag es einfach wie es ist und schau nicht zurück.

So wie sich die Kunst ständig erneuert, so erneuert sich auch die Metasprache, mit der wir ihre Erfahrung beobachten, aufnehmen und integrieren. Geplagt von Jargon, Spielereien und Trends ist die Sprache, die wir verwenden, zu dünn und transparent geworden, wir durchschauen vieles zu leicht.

Das betrachtende Subjekt, sei es Betrachter, Leser, Maler oder im weiteren Sinne die Ausstellung selbst, wandert von einem Brennpunkt zum anderen: Ich, wir, der Kritiker, der Schöpfer, das Museum, die Galerie oder das Publikum. Wo, wer und wie wir beim Erleben der Arbeit sind, Traditionen, Perspektiven und Vorurteile, all dies ist im Quantenakt des Fokus am Werk.

Wenn also meine Interpretation meiner eigenen und meiner Arbeit innerhalb der größeren Ansammlung von Zeichen meine Interpretation bestimmt, inwieweit kann ich dann willkürlich sein, wie weit kann ich gehen, um dem bereits bestehenden Paradigma sowohl als Betrachter als auch als Schöpfer des Werkes zu begegnen?

Mehrere namhafte Künstler, die ich interviewt habe, verstecken sich immer noch hinter dem Künstlerlabel, d.h. ich hatte eine schwierige Kindheit, deshalb mache ich die Kunst, die ich mache, oder die andere Parteilinie, zur unbeschreiblichen Natur der kreativen Erfahrung; Ich weiß nicht, wie ich das mache, es fällt mir einfach ein. Sollen wir glauben, dass man eine millionenschwere Karriere aufbauen kann, indem man sich einfach durch sie hindurchfühlt?

Sicherlich gab und gibt es viele klare Denker auf diesem Gebiet. Aber zeigen sie ihre Karten? Was ist das Kunstspiel, was demonstriert oder tarnt es? Wichtige Wörter wie Mysterium oder Geist werden verwendet, oft als Sammelbegriff für das, was nicht gesagt wird. Als eine weitere Möglichkeit, das Thema zu umgehen und trotzdem im Designer-Anzug gut auszusehen.

Dennoch gibt es viel zu sagen für diese Leute. Wie sie das Instrument beherrschen, das ihr Sein in der Welt ist. Sie spielen die Stille wie ein erfahrener Musiker und halten Ihren Blick mit einer Kadenz fest. Wie ein langer Ton auf der Klarinette ziehen sie und ihr Werk uns an und lassen uns los, aber wie soll man das alles beschreiben?

Und dann natürlich, wie viel von dieser Metasprache wird von der Kunst als Industrie beeinflusst? Der Kritiker, der Galerist, der Sammler und der Künstler kennen alle den finanziellen Aspekt der Kunst, und die Position, die wir innerhalb der Hierarchie einnehmen, ist aufschlussreich.

Allzu oft wird das Radikale, oder auch nur ein milder Katalysator, wenn es nicht verrottet oder sich völlig in Sprachlosigkeit auflöst, an den Rand gedrängt.

Und ist das nicht derselbe Mechanismus beim Klimawandel, bei den Menschenrechten, bei der schlechten finanziellen Verteilung der Welt? Die Aneignung der Metasprache durch die etablierte Ordnung ist auf Dauer immer gefährlich. Berauben Sie die Menschen ihres authentischen Ausdrucks, entleeren Sie ihre Worte der Autorität, entfernen Sie ihre Fähigkeit, über Dinge nachzudenken und zu sprechen, und vollständige Kontrolle wird möglich. Der industrielle Missbrauch von Tieren ist ein Beispiel dafür. Könnten Kühe sprechen, könnten sie die Strukturen, die sie unterdrücken, organisieren, untergraben und an sich reißen.

Unterdrückung? Oh, jetzt gehst du zu weit. Schließlich geht es hier um Kunst. Es sollte Spaß machen!

Wenn unsere Metasprache die marxistische nachahmt, werden wir in eine Schublade gesteckt, also kehren wir besser zum Schweigen zurück. Der Kaiser ist sowieso nackt, und das Leben geht weiter.

Bis es eines Tages nicht mehr geht.

Ich frage mich, ob es nicht eine neue Metasprache gibt, die die Dringlichkeit unserer Zeit ansprechen kann, ohne sich dem Druck von Strukturen zu beugen, die versuchen, das Neue zu unterdrücken. Und wo soll man anfangen, wenn Sensibilität und Authentizität als alberne, ungenaue Mittel zur Auseinandersetzung und Erklärung der Schöpfung gelten?

Ich denke, damit müssen wir umgehen. Denn die Alternative ist, wie gesagt, Stille, Kontrolle und das Fortbestehen eines Wahnsinns, der die Zerstörung aller fühlenden Wesen sowie der Kunst selbst mit sich bringt.


Sky, Amy Antin. 2021. Photograph.



POST 7 / August 5th, 2021


LENS

I

When I have my contact lens in,

(I use only one)

it strains my eyes to read and write,

but when I look up

I can see the detailed silhouette of the treetops

against the soft pajama-blue sky,

and details in the featherlike clouds.

It’s a trade-off,

I think it’s a good deal.

After a short bout of rain

the air is still wet

and carries the scent of the sea.

I don’t think this is only because it rained.

It’s as if some memory of the sea

reaches up out of me

and Being at the Sea mixes with Being Here.

I remember one particular salted wave

that broke on the beach,

its thin white foam like lace,

with tiny cola-colored bubbles.

Some of that foam sank down into the sand,

The rest returned to the wide waves.

II

Just now,

quite suddenly

a flock of birds crosses the sky shrieking,

some strange warlike cry.

Sometimes early mornings we hear them

and wonder what sort of birds they are.

You said they must be those parakeets

escaped from the zoo,

and I thought so, too.

But now it is evening,

the sky still light despite the late hour,

And here they are again,

A nervous brown flock, piercing the thick air.

And then, as quickly as they came,

gone.

Peace and quiet return,

the high leaves softly filter the wind,

cars gently brush the wet street like a cymbal.

III

But the birds have left the sky changed,

several clouds have smoothed into one large cloud,

a deep, thick, darkening gray.

I breathe in, as if to inhale beauty.

Sometimes I wish that these moments could stay,

be paused.

The sealike air, the now heavy clouds

and even those hellish birds are perfect tonight,

perhaps only because I kept the window open,

and my lens in.

Amy Antin,
end of July 2021



I like to think of these paintings as landscapes without land. Or another sort of land.

Red, 2013, Amy Antin. Acrylic on Wood Panel. 127 x 170 cm


POST 6 / 2020

NOT WITH THE FIRE

Perhaps my best years are gone...But I wouldn't want them back.
Not with the fire in me now.
-- Samuel Beckett, Krapp's Last Tape & Embers

I’m not giving up, I’m not easing back
And I can’t make up for the love you lack,
Take the smallest place, say it’s big enough
I won’t hide my ace when the game is up
Do what you will you can’t still this desire
Not with the fire, not with the fire
Do what you will you can’t still this desire
Not with the fire in me now

So you say it’s fine, you don’t mind at all
For you know in time all who rise will fall
Put away my hat, wipe away that smile
I’m not leaving yet, gonna stay a while
Do what you will you can't kill this desire
Not with the fire -- with the fire
Do what you will but my heart will not tire
Not with the fire in me now

You say my stand is second-hand and all my force is dwindling
But I just found out who I am
and my destiny,- the best of me,- is kindling

I’m not gonna rest till I get my chance
But I don’t expect you to understand
There are things on earth you’ve just gotta do
There are things in heaven that speak to you

Do what you will but the flames’ getting higher
Oo with the fire - with the fire
Do what you will you can’t kill this desire
Not with the fire in me now


© 2015 Amy Antin


POST 5 / 2020


THE DANCERS


Heal your heart by giving
Keep your secrets hidden
Raise your voice
but not before you've thought it over
For these are not the days for candor

Find a dream to stay with
Every day update it
Keep the faith in all you say you keep your faith in
For these are not the days for wasting

These are days for staying close to home
Keep the fires burning
Far too many out there all alone
Nervous and afraid
All the plans we made never had a chance
For these are not the days for dancing

Keep the dance inside you
Let the music guide you
Room to room in the arms of Fred Astaire
I can see you there
Lighter now than air and laughing

We can't save another
Father, sister, mother
How I wish I could point my wand like this
and it would be okay
But these are not the days for wishes

These are days for staying close to home
Keep the fires burning
Far too many out there all alone
Nervous and afraid
All the plans we made never had a chance
For these are not the days for dancing

Heal your heart by giving
Keep your secrets hidden
Heal you heart by giving
Keep your secrets


© 2013 Amy Antin




POST 4 / 2020

This song is an entreatment, or maybe a prayer


GENTLE

Be gentle galaxies, glaciers and polar bears
Be gentle with me and family over there
Be gentle with he who holds my heart in his hand
My gentle man, my gentleman

Be kind oh Cavalries, battle for love
May not this sorrow seep into our blood
For we are tender folk of tender ways
With tender hopes for tender days

Your wings over our heads
Your feathers in our beds
Your love in all our lives
My gentle Lord and light

Fare ye not carelessly in times of need
The path is full of thorns, the air of greed
We are but come to give the Earth increase
And leave a legacy of peace


© Amy Antin












POST 3 / 2020


THE ROTHKO CYCLE

Three Songs on the Artist Mark Rothko © 2008 Amy Antin


I Rothko Day

It’s all been said, or not at all,
What once was breath is now a painting on the wall--
They breathe in purple, blaze in red,
resplendent blacks and bitter blues,
Mysterious and true, they get to you,
Every single time they do,
they get to you

It’s all been written, many ways--
They had hard times but those were the days
where art was Art and man was Man
and one worked hard and had a plan,
and he who fell got up again,
At least that is what they tell me
and I believe them

But these are other times--
The trains are red and only red,
The course of color winds from counting dimes to canvas threads
and I love what you said,
how our successes only stress
our loneliness

My heart is full, I’m going back--
The trees come close and turn the window black,
And my reflection in the pane,
A block of green, a line of rain
below a blur of beige, gold and grey--
The perfect way, I’d say
to end a Rothko day

II Common Ground

Rothko paints in blood, my own and his
I am amazed, deeply amazed by this
The magic edges, borders fray but to insist
that all we learn from form
is formlessness

The details of a life are forms as well--
Another harried soul just like myself
who through the dramas, traumas, storms and wishing wells
was glad that what we give
goes out beyond ourselves

A tailor sews a suit of grey on grey and blue on blue
and lavender and brown
and he wears it into town
so all can see that in the seams
he’s put his longing and his dreams
for a more human world,
common ground

It's hard to speak of things that are so close
although we know it’s what we value most
Here, come over here, don’t be afraid
to find the love you fear
here in the love I’ve made

A tailor sews a suit of grey on grey and blue on blue
and lavender and brown
and he wears it into town,
So all can see that in the seams
he’s put his longing and his dreams for a more human world,
common ground

Rothko paints in blood and dies like that--
A pool of red across the floor, the bath,
All lives are death-- a steady, certain path,
With every step we take we’re only heading back

But a tailor sews a suit of grey on grey and blue on blue,
And lavender and brown,
He wears it into town
so all can see that in the seams
he’s put his longing and his dreams
for a more human world,
common ground,

A more human world,
common ground.

III My Name is Rothko

Tell my story, but please do not speak about Art--
Talk about emotion, passion, tragedy and hearts,
painting as action and action a generous gift,
One man among many,
dying to live

This is my field and my work and my cross and my game,
Sometimes you’re holy as hell and others ashamed,
Sometimes you feel so diminished it tears you apart
and just when the whole thing is finished
you’re right back at start

It gets a bit easier now, now that I’m gone--
I don’t have to feel like a cog in their wheel or a pawn,
Don’t have to witness that smile on the sly auctioneer
Though the prices I’m taking these days,
they ring in my ears…

All that I wish is I wish you’ll continue to feel--
Feeling as human as this you’ve just gotta deal,
You go weeding the wheat from the chaff, the joy from the blues,
And sometimes you’ve just gotta laugh,
what else can you do

Famous, infamous or fameless, it’s only a name--
Each of us works and he hopes that his work will remain,
Just touching something or someone, that’s how you survive,
My name is Rothko,
and I’m still alive

POST 2 / 2020

EMPTY / Poem


When my train would stop
at that stop
Three stops before my own
I would look out and up
At a simple balcony
And there she’d sit
On a plastic folding chair
Surrounded by books
Stacked around her on the floor

I’d pray for her
For all who she’d been
And still was
And for all whom she loved
And all who had loved her

I imagined she’d been a professor--
frail now of body but clear of mind
like a piercing light, she sat poised
One flight
up above the world
like the lions
before the New York Public Library
Standing guard over 5th,
Or the building itself,
or the books that roam the wooden halls
like ghosts

I’d pray for her, then
quite often
Even on times when we’d stop
and she wasn’t there
because I knew she was--
Indoors,
Failing

And then came
the deep whirr of the train--
and we’d be off again
energetically moving forward
I’d look back
Wave goodbye in my mind’s eye
and bid her well

Today in Immobilienscout
Where I’m wont to move about
I came upon the listing
It said that an apartment-
that apartment- was for sale
It was that very one, her balcony,
The one where she’d sit

I recognized it right away
There were five photos of the interior
and one of the building as seen from the street
It needs renovation, they wrote
But I loved it
just as it was

The wallpaper was old and faded
but beautiful
The tiles were old and yellowed
but beautiful
The cabinets were old but tall
and beautiful
And the balcony that leaned out
over that stop
where the train stops
was old
but beautiful
and very, very

empty

© Amy Antin, April 27, 2017

POST 1 / 2020


TAKE HEART

Keep the faith in all you do
for the wolf is waiting at the door
He will shake the very core of you
He is made of fear and nothing more
You were born for greater things than to crouch and shiver in the dark
So take heart my heart
Take heart

I know that it's hard for you
to let go and trust that you won't fall
But what else is there to do
If you stay like this you'll lose it all
You were born for gentle arms that reach out and catch you from the start
So take heart my heart
Take heart

Turn your eyes to a bluer sky, to a summer day, to a butterfly
Pave the way for a better day
You know how
and there's no time like right now

Keep an eye on he who lies
Know you do not have to let him in
Stay here in the pulse of life
Where we know that evil cannot win
For you were born for all that rings from the mountain down into the garden
So take heart dear hearts
Take heart


© Amy Antin 2016












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