For this week’s Writer Wednesday, I want to share with you an ekphrastic poem I composed a few months ago that I have recently refined.

First, let’s define ekphrastic poetry.

Definition of ekphrasis: a literary description of or commentary on a visual work of art.

ekphrasis  [Gk ‘description’]: a literary work of art that seeks to describe or recreate in language a visual work of art (painting, photograph, architecture, sculpture, blown glass, etc.)

The visual arts serve as great inspiration for poets. For the following poem, I derived my inspiration from the famous Norman Rockwell piece, The Love Song, which is on display at the Indianapolis Museum of Art.

rockwell_love_song26
The Love Song, by Norman Rockwell.
Oil on Canvas, 1926.

The Love Song (after Norman Rockwell)

Mr. Jameson and his friend
were about to rehearse –
my favorite part
of the morning.

Tick… tick…

The metronome counts.
Nineteen minutes
past nine –

right on time.

I had eleven
minutes to fantasize,
and I intended
to use each one
before the coo of the clock
brought me back to my broom
and the sink full of dishes.

Even though the house
was never clean
enough for the missus,
and I was behind schedule,
I welcomed the break.

The charming notes
fashioned by the flute
and clarinet
carried me across
the room, sashaying my body
to the window, where I could
I rest my head against
the cool, plaster-covered
stone wall.

The men and their music, they
drenched me in a melody
strangely familiar, but I don’t mind.
I adore their eager, genuine effort
to compose their notes like
they worked parallel to the Gershwins.

Every Thursday morning,
at nineteen minutes past nine,
the jazz takes me
back to that moment…

I clutched my broom
tight to my heart,
and slipped
into my usual reverie.

We were sitting on the edge
of the granite fountain
in the middle
of the park, when he first
asked me to dance.

He held me tight
against his chest,
cheek to cheek, and
invited me to trace
his steps, so delicately,
as we swayed…

he whispered
the love song he wrote for me
into my ear. For that brief moment,
I was his…

until the decrescendo
of the flute and
the clarinet’s swelling rest
allowed the little wooden bird’s
final coo to rush
me back to my broom.