Today is World Poetry Day! Last fall, we invited BYU students to submit original poetry inspired by artworks in the exhibition Crossing the Divide. We are delighted to share selected the words of selected finalists here!
"Squinting in a Misty Forest" by Sydney Williams, Family Life - Inspired by "November Montclair"
Squinting
in a misty forest,
I stand.
Cold
and silent.
Mistakes
I’ve made
and
complaints
I’ve prayed
lead me to this
destination.
So then
should I give up
hoping for
someone
to save me
when I know
my path was
traveled
alone?
Still cold
and silent
But
blowing in the wind
comes a whisper
So soft
and quiet
You could
Miss it.
My name.
"Gifford's Prayer" by Paige Winegar Fetzer, Creative Writing (Poetry) - Inspired by "Lake Scene"
If I could fix the world on a moment
I would choose the wrong one;
would pick a sun much brighter
and a field with fewer ghosts,
but you have led me
to this wild lawn by the lake
where just a year ago
men battled and
spilled
the blood now bodied
in the waving grass–
where this morning
I settle the legs
of my easel in the dirt.
Why am I here?
Lord, do not trust me
to see the beauty in this place–
slip your fingers into mine,
line the skin from within me–
the brush is yours,
the paint, your palette,
and I will be still
til I don’t remember
the years before the war,
til you show me how to see
what is left:
the scarred skin of the trees,
the light like thinned ochre,
the smell of smoke in the wet,
red earth.
"Mountain Date" by Elias Tucker, Neuroscience - Inspired by "Jenny's Lake, The Tetons"
Cold air floods my lungs,
an IV drip from the earth to my bloodstream;
recharging my aching, broken body.
The bone-chilling stagnancy of the warm sun
tickles my goosebump-peppered skin, and
my gaze settles on the mountain peak.
Rising tall above the sheltered valley she stands,
the sterile skin of her barren arms swaddling her youth;
And in the wind, tall pines bow to her, their
soft green heads dipping gently in awe.
They sing her a song, their needles
buzzing in the breeze; resonating adoration
in tribute to their protector.
I dip my toes in frigid water, her
reservoir of vitality. The lifeblood of this
raw, stunningly untamed wilderness somehow fills my soul, and,
I rest.
"The Continuous Apprenticeship" by Santi Hulse, Latin American Studies & Business - Inspired by "Woman with Pots"
Hands in Patamban, Michoacán
Make their trades daily-
Wares that wear Purépecha pride-
Like baskets and shoes made from Tampico fiber
But today, the master’s hands make terracotta pots
Little One’s knob knees bounce up and down on the steps of home
Waiting impatiently for Mother’s lesson to be over
Squeals beyond the wall tell her they all play without her
How boring it is to watch Mother’s hands
How ugly her sun spots, the veins pumping and relaxing as she snakes the base of the pot
Little One declares to herself
“Pretty women have smooth hands”
Half-heartedly, she mimics Mother’s movement, starting with the clay serpent and imagines
blinding it as she knowingly crushes too hard its tail to its head
“Funny”
She is released finally from the bondage of her lesson because Mother can tell
Little One won’t be learning today
The master watches her apprentice bound off
Mother remembers her own Naníta molding and coiling the clay
Mesmerized by the ease at which those hands smoothed air pockets and stubborn lines
Those hands were cracked and dry - the dust eternally settled into the creases
Wrinkles that tallied the years of mastery
“Labor is power”
“Labor is honor”
Mother performs such workmanship reverently
-tug, smooth, pinch-
The clay builds
Years of wrinkles. And years of practice
Always the same ceremony
Monotonous? No.
Sacred
She trades clay to become Creator
One day Little One will know
Painting with red dye,
Seeing it drip from each hand as her
Sacrifice for livelihood
Nanita, Mother, Little One
They will all work hand, in hand, in hand
Little One will know -
“Pretty women have wrinkled hands”
"Machine Men" by Zane Jeffrey Zaitzeff, Computer Science - Inspired by "Forgotten Man"
It is now 3am
He was woken up by the wailing of the baby.
He always woke up to the wailing of the baby.
Deep, drowning, darkness demanded
He steps out of his gloomy bed
Into the damp dingy apartment.
His wife gleamed in even the sick yellow light.
Baby in one hand,
The other stirring the pitiful mush called
Breakfast.
A queen to him.
To her,
Withered, thin-stringy hair, and
Rags for a dress.
Never enough money to be healthy.
Always too little to have wants.
It is now 5am
“Don’t forget to buy milk,”
Chimes his wife.
*grunt*
One shoe on.
“Don’t forget my parents will be coming soon,”
She reminds.
*grunt*
Other shoe on.
One kiss
Two kiss
And then she’s left to her lonely vigil
Two blocks right
Turn right
Yellow bus
Off at the bar
One left
Straight ahead
Once you start to cough
You’re there
It is now 6am.
No thinking
Only building
Head down
No words
Someone cries in pain
Don’t help
Meet the quota
He’ll be replaced by lunch.
It is now 12pm
Lunch pail and thermos in hand
He stood in a long line
Treated less than human
The boss is taking every other out
Layoffs?
Panic
Start counting
1
2
1
2
1
2
Him
No No No
Murmuring
Movement
“STAY IN LINE OR WE’LL FIRE ALL OF YA!”
They gave him one day’s work
Enough for milk.
Paralyzed
“Got to get the milk.”
“What do I say?”
“Where to work?”
Down the road he goes
“Slower…
I need more time”
One right
Wait for the bus by the bar
By the bar.
It is now…
It is…
It…
It doesn’t matter anymore.
There is no longer enough for milk.
There is never enough for milk.
There will never be enough for milk.
The yellow bus passes.
Passes again.
And again.
Blue suede coat droops
Across sulking shoulders.
There are no clouds
But
The sun does not touch his face.
His posture cries for attention
No one cares.
There sitting on the side of the street
Sits the forgotten man.
Men and women walking by.
Each is so different from the last.
Yet life treats them,
All the same.
Man made machinery,
Machinery began to make men.
Machine men
Forgotten men
Cheap assembly line imitations.
“We think too much
And feel too little”
-Charlie Chaplin.
A recipe for forgetting.
It is 7pm now,
The sun is setting
The yellow bus
Get on
Get off
Turn left
Two blocks right
Stop
“RUN!”
He waits
The baby cries…
“No”
Says the forgotten man.
“There was a time I cried too
I was not forgotten then
My parents held true.
Through thick and thin
I can not go.
I can not run.
I will not forget my child.
I will not forget my wife.
I will not forget my duty to life.”
The Forgotten man enters
Remembering
Ready to live again.
"My Jaded View of a Painting at the Museum" by Avery G. Lloyd, English - Inspired by "Premier Chagrin"
In the painting, two peasant girls,
sit side by side on an ancient brick wall,
moss gripping its gritty surface.
One is a dark haired beauty, haloed in the golden
wheat glow of a french harvest.
The other girl is draped in cerulean blue satin and
wrapped in a yolk yellow headscarf.
She faces away, letting only a plush pink cheek
subtly hint at her heart's true state.
The dark one has brought a basket filled with sympathy.
She listens and touches Cinderella’s hand,
the hard work of hands made rough to make life smooth,
she caresses and comforts the princess, sincerely.
Her profile is serene, but sad, her mouth bent down
in a frown, content and concerned all at once.
She knows there’s nothing she can do but listen.
The girl embraced by color leans forward,
bracing herself with her hand against the stone.
A burdened heart pulls her forward, drags her down.
I know the weight so well, I’ve held it so long.
The dark one’s soft touch lifts her up.
She’s got one golden slippered foot off the ground,
still floating, her heavy heart halved,
balanced precariously between realism and impressionism,
fantasy and reality—both compelling,
one harder to let go.
The dark one has two feet firmly planted, she knows
her place, her life, her expectations, but she understands,
understands the pull toward the fairytale. She knows, I know,
the yearning, the longing for a world filled with romance, and
kisses in the golden glimmer of the afterglow, and
princes that don’t run away or break promises.
I sit here, seeing myself in her posture, the tension
between floating and folding pinching me raw.
The deja vu sizzles between our alternate medium experience,
like the mirage visible in the air
over the road on a hot summer drive.
I see my friends in the dark one’s sage plaid wrap,
the soft fabric that soaked up my tears so well.
I see my mother in her rusty orange skirt,
the color of the bread she baked me,
because she knows that’s what my heart needs to heal.
And in her dark hair, I see his hair, his eyes, his focused brow.
And I wish now, that he was the one sitting beside me,
touching my hand,
in front of this painting at the museum.
"big sky, going on forever" by Lydia McElroy, International Relations - Inspired by "Dogs and Wild Boar Fighting"
the dog catches the boar
and pierces his side.
they speak as he works.
do you know what you’re going to become?
no.
can i be it anyway?
he takes him to the mesa
with the most fragrant creosote
and the best view from upside down.
he says only what he needs to.
do you know what you are?
remind me.
you’re the cells swirling in your marrow
and the space between your ribs.
you’re everything you’ve ever known,
everything that ever was,
the limit of the experiment.
the dog does not know
the size of his words
and can’t yet understand
that they aren’t his to say.
but when that space is broken open,
what am i then? i beg,
when your brother takes my legs,
can you scatter that part into eternity?
when i can no longer go home to my mother,
let me go home to something greater.
the dog knows
he cannot comfort the martyr he is making
and does not try to.
no.
you stretch out like a great cotton field.
all that you could be.
all that you have been.
but the field is only as big as the lot the farmer
bought.
when you become what we will make of you,
it will all be different.
and can the difference not be great?
the dog can’t answer the question
in the way he should.
his brothers begin to break apart the ribs.
the swarm of fur drowns their words
and the barking renders them meaningless.
when a brother dies in the swarm,
the boar’s death is swallowed up in it.
no one notices when his swirling stops.
in the still,
the dog looks at his bloodied brother,
and his shiny, white teeth,
and the big sky, going on forever.
he sits in the difference.
it does not fit in the space it once did.
what have you become?
neither pig nor dog respond.
they know it's not their place to say.
"By This, Will Find Watching" by George Dibble, English - Inspired by "Navajo Land"
In the day the bright sun-slant slashed canyon our walls and
the knotted sage Spring cool in desert’s dirt
the horse snorts, stone-crunch treading, my legs sore
against its side. We stop. Look. Lift down.
The dirt soft our leatherd souls sink deep. Silent. You
knelt
and this place now there your hands pressed against
chest I know only this here and you and Him there
this spot this sun this desert now, now. Can you feel
Him here, I’ll watch
and walk around no fox feather-stepping near, here,
I won’t kneel, but I’ll watch, around, for you, there,
the sage the sky the horses tilting down. The sun
spills gold upon our shadows, and you
with Him.
"A Poem I Wrote While Looking at 'To Them of the Last Wagon'" Samuel Rather - Inspired by "To Them of the Last Wagon"
I know these ones.
On the pine-colored floor of my grandpa’s cabin
their stories drifted like smoke.
I’ve filled a mason jar with cream
poured from a plastic container.
I shook that jar like a snowglobe until it rattled inside.
I know how their children sang as they walked
and walked and walked and walked
(wait, was there one more “walked?”).
I boarded a school bus and stepped off on an Oklahoma ranch.
Donned a straw hat and twilled cotton coat.
Forced a handcart through dust and mud
and carried Amanda across a stream, her arm slung around my neck.
Three days later it was back on the bus.
I’ve brushed my hand across the ruts cut by the first wagon
and cemented for centuries by thousands of hickory wheels
whose oxen heaved and bellowed in the path set in the dirt by their fathers.
They had walked right there, through Russell’s backyard
where we kicked the soccer ball after school.
Once I followed the ruts past the fence and into the pasture.
I had to pull back crabgrass and wheat straw to make the grooves out.
They became shallow—rainstorms, tornadoes, cottonwood roots,
the odd rodent, and a dust bowl had made sure of that.
But you can still make them out, if you really try.