The Crow (a poem of hope, and revitalization)
The Crow
“In 1996, I got MS, and I could not hold anything, it fell from my hands, I could not remember what happened five minutes after the fact, and I had to go to the bathroom 16-times a night, my legs wobbled, and 85% of my body was numb (and I was always tired, sleeping between 10 and 14 hours a day, plus naps, and falling to sleep wherever), to mention a few of my systems. Yang Yang, a Chinese Artist, whom was a professor of art in the Midwest for many years at a local college, moved from Iowa, to St. Paul, Minnesota, and we met perhaps around 1993. I liked his art, but it was expensive, he was well known in China, and becoming well known in the Midwest, New Orleans, and Florida areas, and in other parts of the country as well. He painted a picture of craw, in oils, that seemed to be in a standing trance, focused on something, what, was the question. This was most inspiring to me; I suggested he should do a series of them. I thought about buying the painting, it was small in comparisons to his other ones, some he sold for $25,000, and up; and he had of course the cheaper ones. He wanted at that time, in 1996, $1400-dollars, for the small painting, but gave it to me for $750. It was really a good deal and I cherished it. My MS at this time had even made me pale, and I had to grip items as I walked through the mall to his art shop. And then he showed me one day, three other pictures of crows he did, each one was, or seemingly was (he would never comment on his paintings to the point of explaining them fully, he felt you should see in them what you see), anyhow, he showed them to me, and each one showed the crow in a revitalization process, until one, the last of the four was looking towards the sun, ready to take flight and bombard it (that was me). Perhaps one or two years later, he asked me for the forth time if I wanted to buy the other three, I did but I didn’t have the amount of money it would take to buy them, I was investing at the time, in fear I would need money incase my MS put me into a wheelchair, thus, he sold each one to me for $250, a very low fee. And I have them to this day.”
The poem, “The Crow,” was found after eight-years, with the picture of the original crow (1999)) never before published, or seen by the public)) at the time I wrote it I did not feel like I wanted to publish it, and it is dedicated to Yang Yang:
The Poem:
Heavy he leans his feathered head
Gazing at the blood red mist
Tired, -- his face shows time has past
And on his tarnished-gray wings—
The world rests…
Has God forsaken you—?
To grief and pain:
To love the sparrow instead?
Are you not the largest of the perching birds?
Crowned with a grayish hood—;
Or are you just a crow…the farmers hate
(or should)…?
Your breath has left you
My feathered friend…
Too week to lift your head again?
What separates you from man?
Is it the sky and land?
Or the road each must go?
Each unto his own…!
It seems to me,
Life’s a test for you as well?
But man must ponder on,
And Reason.
What is the question you ask?
I see, within the stare
Of your silent dark eyes:
“Who are these masters who rule the land—?
Give back to me the sky!”
However,--will you fly again?
Touch the heavens?
Light your wings on fire
From the scorching sun?
Glide with the wind until dawn?
You are the mystery that cries
Within…but then, you are not made in His Image,
My Friend…!
“In 1996, I got MS, and I could not hold anything, it fell from my hands, I could not remember what happened five minutes after the fact, and I had to go to the bathroom 16-times a night, my legs wobbled, and 85% of my body was numb (and I was always tired, sleeping between 10 and 14 hours a day, plus naps, and falling to sleep wherever), to mention a few of my systems. Yang Yang, a Chinese Artist, whom was a professor of art in the Midwest for many years at a local college, moved from Iowa, to St. Paul, Minnesota, and we met perhaps around 1993. I liked his art, but it was expensive, he was well known in China, and becoming well known in the Midwest, New Orleans, and Florida areas, and in other parts of the country as well. He painted a picture of craw, in oils, that seemed to be in a standing trance, focused on something, what, was the question. This was most inspiring to me; I suggested he should do a series of them. I thought about buying the painting, it was small in comparisons to his other ones, some he sold for $25,000, and up; and he had of course the cheaper ones. He wanted at that time, in 1996, $1400-dollars, for the small painting, but gave it to me for $750. It was really a good deal and I cherished it. My MS at this time had even made me pale, and I had to grip items as I walked through the mall to his art shop. And then he showed me one day, three other pictures of crows he did, each one was, or seemingly was (he would never comment on his paintings to the point of explaining them fully, he felt you should see in them what you see), anyhow, he showed them to me, and each one showed the crow in a revitalization process, until one, the last of the four was looking towards the sun, ready to take flight and bombard it (that was me). Perhaps one or two years later, he asked me for the forth time if I wanted to buy the other three, I did but I didn’t have the amount of money it would take to buy them, I was investing at the time, in fear I would need money incase my MS put me into a wheelchair, thus, he sold each one to me for $250, a very low fee. And I have them to this day.”
The poem, “The Crow,” was found after eight-years, with the picture of the original crow (1999)) never before published, or seen by the public)) at the time I wrote it I did not feel like I wanted to publish it, and it is dedicated to Yang Yang:
The Poem:
Heavy he leans his feathered head
Gazing at the blood red mist
Tired, -- his face shows time has past
And on his tarnished-gray wings—
The world rests…
Has God forsaken you—?
To grief and pain:
To love the sparrow instead?
Are you not the largest of the perching birds?
Crowned with a grayish hood—;
Or are you just a crow…the farmers hate
(or should)…?
Your breath has left you
My feathered friend…
Too week to lift your head again?
What separates you from man?
Is it the sky and land?
Or the road each must go?
Each unto his own…!
It seems to me,
Life’s a test for you as well?
But man must ponder on,
And Reason.
What is the question you ask?
I see, within the stare
Of your silent dark eyes:
“Who are these masters who rule the land—?
Give back to me the sky!”
However,--will you fly again?
Touch the heavens?
Light your wings on fire
From the scorching sun?
Glide with the wind until dawn?
You are the mystery that cries
Within…but then, you are not made in His Image,
My Friend…!
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 3:32 PM
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