The title isn’t entirely true to the content of this post. The poem was written after midnight, but Turbulence was coded one evening. It was however refined late at night. And why does Turbulence settle in with the poem? Because code is poetry too.
Turbulence
A little art program inspired by the work of Jackson Pollock, the drip artist. You can paint the canvas in 2 ways:
- Move your mouse around for broad strokes and the color is automatically generated by the position of your mouse.
- However, if you click and drag your mouse across the canvas, you get a narrower stroke and you can pick a color from anywhere on the canvas.
Click to make your own Turbulence.
Your Fingers Like Poems
I had a block for a really long time, and then I read ‘You Begin‘, by Margaret Atwood. So yes… this poem is inspired, but it tells its own story. I’ll be performing it soon.
This is your hand,
Like poems your fingers
Touch, press, caress,
Cajole and read the world
As they sculpt it and shape it
With meaning and form,
You hold her hand,
Cupped in the cave of your palm,
Guiding her across the street,
And at once your fingers
Are anchors and she stops on the
Sidewalk, her little thumb resting
On the curve of your wrist,
This is her hand,
Sticky with the sweetness of ice cream spent,
And tiny like the May bud that blossoms
On the sidewalk where she kneels down
To pluck it,
And your hand now a mother
Pats hers away,
Let the little flower stay,
This is my hand,
Your fingers trace rivers on the
Lines of my palms,
They linger on the mound of my thumb,
They explore the crevices where fingers meet,
How long will I live?
And you trace my life
All the way to my nose,
This is your hand,
Now holding a tooth brush,
Now framing the moon,
Now cold, now warm, caressing
Her palm,
Now warm, now cold, now gripping
My arm as the girl in the movie
Turns around and screams,
These are shadows of our hands
On the wall and they tell stories
Of birds flying and dogs barking,
These are your fingers on my back,
On my face,
These are my hands on your hair,
On your nape,
This is your finger on my lips,
Shh… she is still awake,
And into the night when everything sleeps,
While she plucks flowers by fairytale streams,
And I wrestle dragons, and you travel far,
These hands, they whisper our dreams.
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