My first class is a Critical Thinking and Writing Class. I didn't really think I was a good writer at all, but turns out my instructor thinks I write pretty well. How exciting!
Our assignment this week was to write an ekphrasis poem on a piece of art. I chose to do it about the paint "The Swing" by Jean-Honoré Fragonard, which was done by him in 1767.
In 8th grade, I had to do a posterboard-sized painting of the original painting. So, I'm posting a pic of the original and my 8th grade piece of The Swing. Then below, I've posted the ekphrasis poem I just wrote about it today. Enjoy!
The Swing
In this lover’s park where cupid plays and cherubs whisper
We rendezvous, but in secret for we know it is forbidden.
The shadows of the trees hide you well, but I know
You are there waiting, watching, yearning for a glimpse.
A storm is brewing
Not in the background, between the trees
Where the ominous clouds have dimmed the sun
No, a storm I must weather between he that controls
And I, who longs for your eyes in my view.
My dress, not red for desire but its softer cousin.
Pink for playfulness, but also passion and premonition
That it soft layers should flow up and over
Yes up and over your precarious point of view
There, among the wiry bushes.
They don’t hurt you but carefully prod you
Maybe closer, just within reach.
Our eyes meet again and again with motions back and forth
My legs thrust me; pelvis moving.
Ever closer but teasingly away again.
Will my slipper alone satisfy you?
Perhaps by accident it floats your way
But no, not by misadventure, but by hoping and wanting,
Waiting for the time where not only my slipper meets you,
but I do.
Something is holding me back—a power beyond me.
The reins of this swing are pulling me, keeping me away.
Joined to the reins are his hands.
I keep trying to get closer to you
But am detained, maybe forever
Or maybe until love comes of age
He can’t let me go, he won’t let me go.
Finally, goodbye for the day
I’ll protect us from the fierce storm for now
But I’ll remember your position
I’ll remember you were nigh
The memory of us can dance in my head
When those slippers come together
In learned steps of lust, but not lust, love
Love longed-for
A memoir of our swing.
