{"id":4239,"date":"2022-04-05T14:26:54","date_gmt":"2022-04-05T18:26:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/thelantern\/?p=4239"},"modified":"2022-04-20T11:47:20","modified_gmt":"2022-04-20T15:47:20","slug":"ekphrastic-poetry-breath-left-in-you","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/web.colby.edu\/thelantern\/2022\/04\/05\/ekphrastic-poetry-breath-left-in-you\/","title":{"rendered":"Ekphrastic Poetry: “breath left in you”"},"content":{"rendered":"

At the Colby Museum’s event,<\/em> Art&: The Poetics of Atmosphere, Dominic Bellido ’24 read his new poem, “Thinking Of The Key.” Bellido wrote this poem in response to Lorna Simpson’s<\/em> Cloudscape, a video <\/em>on view in the exhibition <\/em>The Poetics of Atmosphere: Lorna Simpson’s Cloudscape and Other Works from the Collection. You can watch a recording of the event, which includes a reading of this poem by Bellido, here<\/a>. “Thinking Of The Key,” along with Bellido’s poem, <\/em>“Son of Amauta,” can also be read below. <\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Thinking Of The Key<\/strong><\/p>\n

Inspired by Lorna Simpson\u2019s video installation, <\/em>Cloudscape<\/p>\n

Why do men on silk screens <\/span><\/p>\n

remind me of prayer? <\/span><\/p>\n

Why do the voices ring <\/span><\/p>\n

around my mind in <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

scattered circles, like skipping <\/span><\/p>\n

stones on slack rivers? <\/span><\/p>\n

What of the waves <\/span><\/p>\n

from that forbidden sea? <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Notice his eyes are <\/span><\/p>\n

always closed; straight <\/span><\/p>\n

legs sprouting from shadows <\/span><\/p>\n

like black flowers. Petals <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

curling their edges at <\/span><\/p>\n

penumbras; but, this light <\/span><\/p>\n

is not dull enough <\/span><\/p>\n

to dungeon me. It\u2019s not <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

enough to cage the sound <\/span><\/p>\n

of my mother\u2019s song, or <\/span><\/p>\n

those spirits of Sunday <\/span><\/p>\n

mornings clung to her <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

tongue. Her whistles pierce <\/span><\/p>\n

even the toughest of God\u2019s <\/span><\/p>\n

rain. She rejects the myth <\/span><\/p>\n

of time. Like, how we used <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

to wipe wooden floors <\/span><\/p>\n

to Eddie Santiago, when<\/span><\/p>\n

I knew her arms as warmth <\/span><\/p>\n

rather than words. She <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

always let me ask questions <\/span><\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t yet answer. <\/span><\/p>\n

Like, is sound only alive <\/span><\/p>\n

when it touches us? Like stars <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

projecting into the midnight <\/span><\/p>\n

curtain above me? <\/span><\/p>\n

Or does it stack <\/span><\/p>\n

itself in patient squares <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

when we refuse <\/span><\/p>\n

to listen? Like water, it runs <\/span><\/p>\n

down the ceramic tub, <\/span><\/p>\n

splashing at hair curling <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

into question marks <\/span><\/p>\n

my mother wipes. She whistles, <\/span><\/p>\n

and the notes carry <\/span><\/p>\n

the lullaby she stowed <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

next to my ribs. The cut <\/span><\/p>\n

of sleep she promised <\/span><\/p>\n

each night, that if I prayed <\/span><\/p>\n

and if I thanked my <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Angel de la guarda, <\/span><\/p>\n

dulce compa\u00f1\u00eda, no <\/span><\/p>\n

me dejes solo ni de <\/span><\/p>\n

noche ni de d\u00eda, I <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

would be saved. Can you <\/span><\/p>\n

save the disappeared, God? <\/span><\/p>\n

Or are you still not<\/span><\/p>\n

listening? Even when the fog<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/span><\/p>\n

envelops us, we return <\/span><\/p>\n

with our hands intact. <\/span><\/p>\n

Our lips open <\/span><\/p>\n

and plump. The thread <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

between us kept <\/span><\/p>\n

winding around the lungs <\/span><\/p>\n

of this Earth. Because to be <\/span><\/p>\n

loud means there is breath <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

left in you. There is time <\/span><\/p>\n

to let her take your hand, <\/span><\/p>\n

and cup your head, <\/span><\/p>\n

whispering into your hair<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/span><\/p>\n

Sana sana, <\/span><\/p>\n

colita de rana. <\/span><\/p>\n

Si no sanas <\/span><\/p>\n

       hoy,      sanar\u00e1s      ma\u00f1ana<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
Lorna Simpson, Cloudscape<\/em> (still), 2004. Video, sound. Museum purchase by the Colby Museum Board of Governors in support of the New Media Arts Consortium, a collaboration of the art museums at Bowdoin College, Brandeis University, Colby College, Middlebury College, Mount Holyoke College, and Skidmore College, 2019.038<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

 <\/p>\n

Son of Amauta<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
Click on the text to enlarge this poem.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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