Poems

A world of burnt umber and so much more than lead white

If the sky looks ultramarine, and you
feel down, burn some sienna and

mix it in. The gray will feel warm. Brush it up

in the freezing rain (burn umber if you like
your grays a bit cooler)

Splash in the puddles on your way,
take in the motor oil rainbows, honor

the gift of snowmelt you just received, and

walk on—through the slush of muddled

pigments. A clean brush can’t be far off.

There is a stream out there
trickling from the mountain top you

try to get to. I know. I’m heading there, as well. Let’s
keep on trekking with our portable watercolor
kit in our pockets, and the cold press
watercolor block under our arms.

The ashen sky is on our minds like stones,

like bones, and we’re thinking “Oh, paper
how do I lift stains from you?” Wouldn’t we
rather celebrate the blooms? Blooms

from earth tones like ochre clay, the hues

of sand, the sounds of shells washing ashore, and
the wind swept woods of forbidden greens,

with canopies hiding frigid creeks

so clear, no artist would want to wet

his brush into its wilderness, its rapids,
to rinse reds rarely revealed.

—Erik Schurink
Published in A Book of Matches, a literary journal

My Attic

Pandemic life is an attic
going out, a rickety staircase

The memory of before 
merely thin air without decorum:

Sunshades when sunny—check!
A coat when cold—check!
Rain in the forecast? Pack a 
poncho, just in case!

My legs, these days—a ladder 
to pump room and air handlers.
My blood coursing 
through walls, staleness
fogging my windows. Yet

I will go out—incognito— 
to listen to the birds
flying over my skylight.

—Erik Schurink, April 2020