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LV De’an 吕德安 – The Great Return

Oil on canvas – 60″ x 48″
Available for purchase

 

The Pink Painting

At low tide I wander,

shoes in hand,
eyes on the spire.

Gothic island-abbey
rises from the mudflats
of the vast bay.

I imagine the first monks
as they climbed the rock
to get close to God.

How they ferried granite across the bay
and hiked it uphill,
built on ruin after ruin—
the stately church, delicate cloisters,
then the refectory
where they ate in austere silence.

Only to return to the dark, damp foundations
where six men powered a great tread-wheel
to haul stones, fish and mutton
from the landing below.

You are fascinated by motorcycles.

I wait for you on the causeway’s edge
scrawl dates in black sand
where fetid marsh meets boiling sea.

At Restaurant La Mère Poulard

we dine on bouchot mussels and Muscadet
amid the trill of many tongues.

Pale sky turns ashen blue
and pink ramparts floodlit.

The centuries fall away.

What the guide-books don’t tell us
is that love relies on solitude
the ability to co-translate.

Our marriage saved one more year.

By Laura Lee Bennett

6 Comments

Leave your reply.
  • I’m tired of being small,
    thinking I will never.

    In red I see myself
    ready to nix Nancy

    I’d rather straighten up,
    to feel profound as pink,

    relieved as yellow.
    Grab the fine black lines

    to tug me forward,
    asking for risk I never

    dreamed, landing on
    top of blue-gray.

    Amazing, no longer
    second, but green.

    Nancy Canyon

  • THE DANCER

    A cold basement

    A Tasmanian Devil of motion
    in a blood-red dress

    The violence of her dancing
    bruises the air through which she moves

    leaving the occasional smear of blood
    to mark the path the saxophonist took
    as he staggered from the scene—

    or perhaps crawled
    (forensics hasn’t come back yet)

  • FUNNY FACE

    You know, ‘demolition’ doesn’t feel enough
    to convey the extent of the wreckage—
    cyclonic swirls, gouges in the pavement
    scars left by flames burning hotter
    than imagination is capable of rendering

    Is crossing it all out and starting over an option?
    Are you sure it’s not just over-caffeinated fantasy
    whipping up all those things you’ve been trying to forget?

    Some scratches take longer to heal
    especially the ones you keep picking at

    At this rate, you’ll never wipe away all the blood
    or put things back the way they used to be

    Those stray lines are still going to show
    no matter how much you paint over them

    Yet here you are, trying to make me laugh—
    how do you do that?

    (30 September 2016)

  • Still No Wind, Just Tears From the Sky
    By Duane Kirby Jensen
    – After looking at the painting “ The Great Return”
    by LV DE’AN at the VALA Art Center in Redmond, Washington

    Knees deep in mud she weeps into her palms
    not wanting to bear witness to the slaughter.

    This place.
    This placid pond.
    This slice of tranquility,
    that gave her buoyancy through so many rocky times,
    lays desecrated, the scent of gun smoke lingers.
    Blood and flesh and feathers of a thousand birds
    clings to marsh grasses… water has turned red.

    Staring up into the grey, she asks herself,
    “Were there ever songs sung here?
    Her heart doubts her memory.

    Slamming her fists into the mud, she wails, “WHY!”
    Gazing into the red, she realizes,
    even the water has given up
    refusing to show her reflection.

    Only the insects show excitement – feasting and laying eggs.

    Copyright © 2016 by Duane Kirby Jensen

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