Memory Lane--a few of my old poems

Maida is taking a creative writing class at school right now, and it reminded me of the days when I was discovering my ability and desire to write. I wrote poems in the beginning, and I thought it might be fun to post some of them. I'd love to hear what you think!

This one is based on the above painting by Rousseau. I'm sure I didn't interpret the painting the way Rousseau intended it, but then again.... I like this one because of the symbolism, even though it's kind of depressing. Plus, the being in the painting is clearly a woman.... I guess sometimes you see with your mind's eye.

Naked (After Rousseau's "The Snake Charmer")
I
The dark man stands between
a deep, wide river,
and a jungle.
A cowl
hides his face.
He coaxes currents
into small pools
at his feet
with the flute
he holds to his lips.

A serpent's body
ribbons
around a mahogany arm.
It's head
hovers
just above
the charmer's left shoulder.

II
The charmer
is trying to climb
into our skin.

He's bigger than us.
Our skin will crack.
We'll have to shed it.

And we will be left
between a deep, wide river
and a jungle,
raw,
naked.

Amy Young, 1988

This one is based on a photo by Robert Frank. I couldn't find one that wasn't a thumbnail...

Southern Streetcar (After a photograph by Robert Frank)
I
In the first seat
of the streetcar
sits a white woman.
Her cheeks sag
to join her slight double chin.
The blind ont he window
covers her forehead.
She holds a book,
a closed Bible,
on her lap.

II
Two children
sit in
the second seat,
dressed in their Sunday best.
The older one looks like a young soldier,
staunch and solid,
with slightly flared nostrils.
By almost arching his back,
he avoids touching
his little brother,
whose fingers
are sticky from his candy.

III
And in the third seat
sits the black man,
withhis blazing eyes
turned skyward.
His shirt
hangs loosely
over his shallow chest,
like water
polishing a flat stone.

Amy Maida Young, 1989

This one is fun.

i am not myself today

i am a blouse,
made of royal blue
crepe de chine,
thin and transluscent.

i hang in the dark attic,
gathering dust
and the smell of moth balls.

my left shoulder,
with gathers in its seam,
sags off the wooden hanger

and i feel my color
fade
like watered-down paint on canvas.

Amy Maida Young, 1989

Okay, one more.

Apocalypse (after Omar Salinas)
Confusion today
smells
of brush fire,
rancid oil and balm.

It has the mouth
of a liar
denying himself
as he sneaks into my flesh.

Confusion has the nightmares
of deep-sea divers
drifting in cobalt,
losing sight of the
quick-silver surface.

It feels the crush
of a moth
mating with its reflection.

Many things of confusion
cry like a bleeding sun
in an ashen sky
while the mountainside
across the valley
burns.

Amy Maida Young 1989