Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Transference

New paint on an old door is a sly trick.

Wait for a sunny day, and then

Wave the brush in your hand up and down as a signalman does--

The train will be coming through...

That is the only certain thing.



Set your can of color on a newspaper,

And both in the morning sun.

If you see, beyond its silver rim, that someone you know

Has died or gotten married,

Or discussed your heart in an interview,



Remember that this job will take many coats,

And each will have to dry before starting on the next.

In the meantime,

As you sip tea on the steps and read further, out of boredom,

Don't be surprised at the ink that stays on your fingers,

Or the paint that remains on the page.

_____________

14 comments:

TALON said...

This was such an interesting poem, Shay. As layered as the paint...

Lynn said...

I like this poem. It also makes me think of unpacking boxes packed long ago and smoothing out the newspaper wrapping.

jason evans said...

After all the work, I suppose a time comes to walk through.

Daryl said...

Layers of life ... colors of dreams ...

Mama Zen said...

That first line is brilliant.

Cloudia said...

The examined life...






Aloha from Waikiki, Friend

Comfort Spiral

Elizabeth Bradley said...

I've got old paint on a new door.

Tabitha Bird said...

Oh I love this poem. New paint on an old door is a powerful metaphor. One could go places with that hey :)

Riot Kitty said...

Great poem and great metaphor. How did you think of this one?

~ Tabitha ~ said...

Love it.

As a matter of fact,I think I have a little ink left under one of my finger nails these days ;)

Senorita said...

I'll admit it, I am not one for poetry. It's hard for me to relate, but this poem was excellent and resonated with me. Nice job !

Kelly Dickson said...

oh i want a poem on 'counter-transference' now! ;) love it! x

Mojo said...

When I saw the title my mind went down an entirely different path, but you brought me back around before the end.

In every interaction a little of "them" stays with "us" -- and vice versa.

The image of the newspaper reminds me of my childhood, when we lived in a tent made of newspaper in the middle of the street and foraged for sticks and leaves.

Cloudia said...

you are goOD!