scarecrow poetics/essays
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Oh Cunt...
A painter of cunt I’ve always been—OH CUNT!—
But I’ve worked almost exclusively in watercolor daubs
of the utmost timidity, not with brushstrokes of any boldness
or aggression—because I’ve always been afraid of my subject,
afraid of the beauty of sweet sticky life and all the horrible
things it could do to me …
But that’s not half as sad as how I’ve usually painted
a woman’s head: as a barely differentiated blob, without
eyes to reveal her pain, joy, or even curiosity, or a mouth
that might just tell me “No, my heart’s not for you and even
the cunt you’re painting is not mine but your own little-boy
fantasy that hurts me more than you can seem to know …”
“OH CUNT!” indeed
But oh cunt I still love thee—but now I hope like a child
who wants to grow up, like a suddenly young artist who is
finally taking the time to learn the rudiments of anatomy …
the line of a cheekbone, the oval of the mouth, the chambers
of the heart … both my subject’s and my own …
I will always paint cunts, but those soon slick with love, I hope,
slick with love as well as tongue and groan … as sparkling eyes
look down upon my work in shivering approval ...
Richard Woodard © 2006.
But I’ve worked almost exclusively in watercolor daubs
of the utmost timidity, not with brushstrokes of any boldness
or aggression—because I’ve always been afraid of my subject,
afraid of the beauty of sweet sticky life and all the horrible
things it could do to me …
But that’s not half as sad as how I’ve usually painted
a woman’s head: as a barely differentiated blob, without
eyes to reveal her pain, joy, or even curiosity, or a mouth
that might just tell me “No, my heart’s not for you and even
the cunt you’re painting is not mine but your own little-boy
fantasy that hurts me more than you can seem to know …”
“OH CUNT!” indeed
But oh cunt I still love thee—but now I hope like a child
who wants to grow up, like a suddenly young artist who is
finally taking the time to learn the rudiments of anatomy …
the line of a cheekbone, the oval of the mouth, the chambers
of the heart … both my subject’s and my own …
I will always paint cunts, but those soon slick with love, I hope,
slick with love as well as tongue and groan … as sparkling eyes
look down upon my work in shivering approval ...
Richard Woodard © 2006.
ROB WOODARD was born in Anaheim, California in 1964 and raised mostly in the nearby Long Beach area. After graduating high school, he dropped in and out of various community colleges and worked mostly in restaurants in southern California, Hawaii, and Australia, while taking breaks to wander aimlessly across big swaths of the globe. During these years he wrote consistently in search of his voice as a writer. Frustrated by his lack of progress, he returned to school and eventually obtained bachelors and masters degrees in anthropology from California State University, Long Beach. After a brief stint as a college professor, he returned to working in restaurants and writing. Burning Shore Press recently published Heaping Stones, his first novel. What Love Is, his second novel, is scheduled to be released by the same house in the summer/early fall of 2006. He is currently writing poetry, book reviews, and a journal.
Contact: bsp@burningshorepress.com
Contact: bsp@burningshorepress.com
posted by scarecrow # 12:17 PM 
