My name is Grace Hasson and this month my first book, Into the Orange Grove: A Collection of
Poetry, was published. I have dreamed of publishing a book for a long time and now that dream is a reality. The book is a journey, my journey, through heartbreak and isolation and ends at finding growth. In this post I’d like to share a poem I wrote that I immediately loved since the first draft.
Last year I took a Renaissance Art History class. I also learned about the ekphrastic poem, in which the poet describes and explains something, usually a piece of art. To me, combining artwork with poetry is a great way to find inspiration. One of the paintings we learned about in my class was the paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
The story of Michelangelo painting the Sistine ceiling seemed to make it so much more than a painting. Creating that piece of art was a journey for him, like my book has been for me. I decided to tell his story through the lens of my story. No journey is easy, but each one teaches a lesson.
Michelangelo Painting the Sistine Ceiling
I lean backwards to create; to craft a layer of life.
Hot pins under my skin dart around inside me as I reach
again, adding a hair to a beard—a cloud puff pulled straight.
Noah is first: a story of life told backwards through paint—
I bend backwards through pain. Speak to Noah. Him alone.
The only one who understands.
He sees the storm to come; black fog in the eyes, mind, ears.
Cumulating cumulonimbus, created for us. Maybe I can stop it.
Purple water line in the clouds, says chain the angels of war.
Ocean of orange devil waves engulf all but the ark, made more noble
than the face of Christ. Dot of gray, a nail holding the wooden world together,
a nail holding flesh to light and light to salvation.
Can I change anything? Noah did. His hands held calluses and deliverance.
Mine wear paint like an extra skin. I’ll never shed my sunbeams of paint.
Even when the typhoon hurls me to the ground, breaks my back.
I won’t stop. My brush makes heaven come down.
God stays on the ceiling, I think he too loves
the taste of Earth.
Hot pins under my skin dart around inside me as I reach
I tried to put myself in Michelangelo’s body. What would it feel like to paint a ceiling for four years? I imagined that kind of work would hurt. My explanation of that kind of pain is the feeling of pins shooting through the body, constantly. Artists have to work and sometimes suffer for their art. My book never caused me any physical pain, but at times I wanted to give up. Some pins, like doubt, dig deep. This poem is about continuing to create despite that.
I bend backwards through pain. Speak to Noah. Him alone. / The only one who understands.
My book has Catholic imagery and Biblical references since I was raised Catholic. My relationship with religion is explored earlier in the book in the poem “My Open Relationship.” I notice something similar to this poem when I reference another Biblical figure in my poem “The Last Supper.” In “The Last Supper” the narrator writes, “I loved the story of Judas, / someone with some sense.” Each narrator relates in some way to a Biblical figure. In Michelangelo’s case, he has no company but the people he has painted. The parallel is that Michelangelo sees his own end of the world coming. Noah knew about the flood that would devastate the world. In this poem, Michelangelo find solace in knowing others try to prepare for devastation.
Cumulating cumulonimbus, created for us. Maybe I can stop it. / Purple water line in the clouds, says chain the angels of war.
The most important part of this stanza, to me, is the shortest sentence. Maybe I can stop it. Everyone wants to save the world. To prevent tragedy. We all try to protect the people we love, but some floods are inevitable. I’ve tried to learn to accept that some eras end so that a whole new world can blossom.
a nail holding flesh to light and light to salvation.
Some things seem so insignificant in life. One small act of kindness. One nail on an ark carrying what’s left of life. Sometimes our actions feel small. What’s one book among the millions out there? Why even write one when there’s so many others out there? It’s hard not to feel small sometimes. What good in the world can just one person do? But I’m a believer that every good deed and every piece of art, makes the world better. If every artist and poet in the world thought they weren’t worthy of creating, there would be no art.
Can I change anything? Noah did. His hands held calluses and deliverance. /
Mine wear paint like an extra skin. I’ll never shed my sunbeams of paint. /
Even when the typhoon hurls me to the ground, breaks my back.
I remind myself that others before me have doubted themselves and still went on to be successful. There’s something beautiful about persevering. The narrator saying I’ll never shed my sunbeams of paint is equivalent to me not giving up on my book. The following line I wrote and then later discovered was based on fact. Michelangelo fell while painting the Sistine Ceiling, breaking his back. This is a reminder that no journey has no obstacles.
My brush makes heaven come down. / God stays on the ceiling, I think he too loves / the taste of Earth.
I think there is something spiritual and divine about art. Certain poems I have such a deep connection to, that is helps me believe more in myself, and in life having meaning. Michelangelo painted god, captured him on the ceiling. But paintings at the time were made not just for their beauty but to save souls. I think creating and even appreciating art make life soulful. To me, there’s something holy about sharing a piece of your true self—and I hope people see that when they read my collection.