Scroll to Read this weeks batch of poems!
Before there were paintings, there were words. Sister Souls as Wordsworth would call painting and poetry. Literature through art is a medium where memory is simultaneously built and observed, where reality can be imitated and bare. Together, I have found both sides of my brain working in a wondrous philosophic collision of morality and nature.
Poetry was my first voice, my muse. Though visual language through poetry and writing has always been a strong perception of mine, but when words fail, or reach the end, in the best way of course, the visual elements of art can sweep right in and speak away.
By Noelle Bowden | Spring 2024
Can the weather compete with itself
just like we do, the silent battles
all fought differently
blindly, full of anger, is that how snow
feels to you?
Together here, we know times mind,
aging with water
revealing in hues of orange, burnt red
brown ripples unmoving,
easy crumbling powder,
stale and flaky, heavy snow
where the degradation hides,
until June’s sun rips the cloak
of spring,
children in short-sleeves
just a year older.
By Noelle Bowden | January 2024 The death in winter
The cold is what makes us
think, until we are full
and burst out, a storm
that covers the entirety
of your ground, grass frozen thick,
lakes a stone of glass.
_____
And somewhere in that distance,
the snow still falls
in fog
that misted furry,
suffocating the air,
and I breathe as much as I can,
In.
By Noelle Bowden | March 2024
Iced violets she loves to visit,
in winter we party,
presence brighter than headlights
in the gray deepening road
the cars run amuck on,
but all night she twists
last blooms down
so no rain can drown them
their last push to sleep,
burrow with the seed
she says,
I could keep her here
on my shoulder,
all forever.