Poems

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

If the sky looks too ultramarine,
burn some sienna and mix it in.
The gray will feel warm. Brush it up
in the freezing rain (and burn umber
if you prefer cooler grays)

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
headed there, as well. 

Let’s keep on trekking with our
portable watercolor kit in our
pockets, and the cold press
watercolor pad 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 them as 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, 2021/25

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