This is a poem I wrote about my daughter and her unorthdox way of painting.

Vortex of Energy

Her painting rituals will make her
stronger than any man.
The greens implode upon the blues,
the reds are unbounded stars across a
sky canvas, and the purples
form spatulate waves where no
blue boat can ever stay afloat,
splayed forever by spears of
blacken ink, flashes of blue
fighting for space between the
yellow and green.

The water gathers in purple puddles
like a puppet waiting for the master
to speak, her storm of anger must
subside before she will
tell me her secrets.

Eva Guillot

Stranger in the City

after Neruda’s “Stranger on the Shore”


I have come back and still the city
keeps sending me strange ideas.

The streets do not recognize me.
And it makes no sense to come
to the city without the proper mind.

The city does not know you are searching
or even that you are awaken by the
sounds of its streets.
They are so busy with all its tourists
and silver men who travel from
destinies unknown.

The streets keep up the beat, with
splashes and honks and smells
of the night. Many hands reach
out to you, but without kisses,
without smiles.

And you soon must realize what a
small thing you are in the city.
By now you thought you were no
stranger, secure in your walk into
No Man’s Land and here come the
streets and life in the city to slap
you down, put you in your place.

I will have to wait for the rain,
the cooling off, the washing down
of dog piss and beer that soaks
the stones of this city
because rain is not just rain
but a lazy retreat from heat.
The streets move on, the gutters
pushing trash on its way to the river,
and only the street smells linger.

And so I have to learn
to sit beside my dreams
in the city, wait for them to
return anew, refreshed.
If that happens, all will be well
when tomorrow stirs
on the wet stones of the streets
and the slow slap of the river
will know who I am and why I return
and will accept me into its soul.

I can be content again
in the solitude of the city,
invigorated by the streets
and respected by the written word.

Eva Guillot
July 26, 2005
New Orleans