Vachel Lindsay’s ENTRANCE
Suppose – Just suppose from my position on Fifth Street at Edwards, I am looking inward.
The writer’s mind sees both this geometrically – this eye to the time of Hughes aircraft – almost stalls.
Almost stalls at her own poetic image – delivered by the artist’s hand.
Do I know the artist’s heart as I grin within? Neighboring nearby, 40 years ago, this poet lived in the shadow of the Vachel vacancy. Who knew?
A twenty year old in discovery.
She never saw me, a pane. Please, a quick reflection of the Mansion shenanigans – this was feeding a small- town girl. Instant stimulation that limits inspiration.
Non-musingly.
Eyeing the scenes that would have been. Vachel, offering a shared path as this poet would trek with him across America to touch the common man. Buffooning in prophet form for hope and prosperity that stimulates each individuals “lion to roar.”
Why are we here now? To boast of my body’s reclamation. Yes, my structure, this entry door, this house holds me as I hold the painting, pining, and penning of the Lindsey’s.
The ages stages changes.
I am celebrating this eccentric troubadour of tree bells, lotus, Congo – ah, you have given me permission to share my findings as I have found him later, but not too late. Sharing him now seems to be my fate.
The hand that chose to share this eye –
Rushed memories,
Rushed to pen,
Begs the question, is it Lois Lane again?
Barbara McDonald
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| Vachel Lindsay Entrance, Tracey Maras |
The writer’s mind sees both this geometrically – this eye to the time of Hughes aircraft – almost stalls.
Almost stalls at her own poetic image – delivered by the artist’s hand.
Do I know the artist’s heart as I grin within? Neighboring nearby, 40 years ago, this poet lived in the shadow of the Vachel vacancy. Who knew?
A twenty year old in discovery.
She never saw me, a pane. Please, a quick reflection of the Mansion shenanigans – this was feeding a small- town girl. Instant stimulation that limits inspiration.
Non-musingly.
Eyeing the scenes that would have been. Vachel, offering a shared path as this poet would trek with him across America to touch the common man. Buffooning in prophet form for hope and prosperity that stimulates each individuals “lion to roar.”
Why are we here now? To boast of my body’s reclamation. Yes, my structure, this entry door, this house holds me as I hold the painting, pining, and penning of the Lindsey’s.
The ages stages changes.
I am celebrating this eccentric troubadour of tree bells, lotus, Congo – ah, you have given me permission to share my findings as I have found him later, but not too late. Sharing him now seems to be my fate.
The hand that chose to share this eye –
Rushed memories,
Rushed to pen,
Begs the question, is it Lois Lane again?
Barbara McDonald
