What a lovely poem.  Nice sound.  Nice colors.  But I do question if an
artist is really ever this hesitant--Moses facing the burning bush? Yes.  But
the call is not anything that I would think even humility would question.
You hear it.  You go.  But this is just my personal take on the call, which I
consider to be impelling and absolute whatever the cost.  Still, anything
else I might say about this poem would only be little nits, and even then I
am not sure they would matter that much.  Well done.
Sue

<< The Call


 Hair and skin painted tourmaline and opal
 from sea spray and sunset, she emerges,
 entwined with kelp, giggles and races
 along the surf line, past beach umbrellas,
 startled pelicans and sandpipers,
 droplets trailing like a meteor shower.

 Yesterday, alone in the museum, she heard
 polite coughs as women artists beckoned
 from their oils, watercolors, charcoals
 and bronzes, insisted she too take up brush
 or chisel, join their celebrations and causes.
 "Who, me?"
 "Yes," they chant.

 In Cassatt's The Loge, one girl in a pink,
 off-the-shoulder gown, enfolded a bouquet
 with her white-gloved hands.  The other
 entreated from behind a Chinese fan.

 O' Keeffe's adobes, bones, sand and sky invited;
 Purple Petunias forced her to see anew.

 Frida's Self Portrait with Monkey hypnotized
 with the painter's stare, red-ribboned neck
 and a single black eyebrow thrust across her face.

 Delauney's pincheels of color spun
 like whirling dervishes in Electric Prisms,
 begged her to join the dance.

 Bonheur's Horse Fair made her catch
 her breath - the rippling muscles carressed
 by light and shadows.

 The Tower of Mothers by Kollwitz
 whispered, "We need you."

 As she prances and gambols on the shore,
 the sky fades from jewels to a blurred
 mass of anthracite grays.  A tern whistles
 to an oyster catcher and a pair of claws
 scurries back into the sea.  She hears
 the artists singing from cloistered rooms
 carried on the waves.  Their voices call,
 resonate and she asks, "Do I dare?"
  >>