No one that gazes upon the fine art of Andrea Kowch can deny the mood that it arouses. She has been described as a “powerful voice emerging, demonstrating a highly sensitive consciousness that informs a culturally laced symbolism.”  Her paintings seem to be informed by a strong and subtly mysterious narrative. She paints with the able brush of an old master, although she is largely self taught. Unlike the paintings of the old masters, Her subjects have an intense, yet ambiguous quality. Her work displays subtle, poetic nuance, and leaves itself open to interpretation. This is why we decided that poetry would be the best medium to compliment her art. The following poems were submitted by poets that were inspired by her haunting imagery. These talented poets have also exhibited outstanding, artful comprehension that we felt was deserving of being shown alongside Ms. Kowch’s perfectly executed paintings.

See more of Andrea Kowch’s work here: http://www.andreakowchillustration.com/

It should be mentioned that the following poems are the poets’ unique interpretations of the Andrea Kowch’s work, and do not necessarily reflect her views or intent.

Inspired by Andrea Kowch’s Refuge
A Midwestern Gothic – Maura Marsh by Ariel Jastromb

I am but a cipher of the manor born—
eighteen and but a nursemaid to poor Louise.
Neuroscience, a dream of mine—
the pleasure of late night study in a state lab,
vanished in an instant,
in Mother’s retractable claws.
She shred my University acceptance letter with such hunger,
as if to feed the chatter enfeebling her tortured brain.
Neuroscience. Degeneration. Regeneration?
Separation of mind and body.

And so I separate mine.
My body lays here, my mind, elsewhere.
Chestnut hair, matted and mingled in late summer grass,
the old Lutheran clapboard church, shedding gray/white shingles
not unlike the gulls, so far from home,
that soar overhead like enormous pearls
sewn into the clam flesh of sky,
churning now with pockets of pending rain.

Bones clamor beneath this very soil,
devoid of any markers.
I can hear them when I press my ear to the earth.
We Marshes toil even in our deaths.
Our great hulking mausoleums hauled away,
embellished with Greek Gods and Goddesses,
lost in a bet by Grandfather Marsh—
for they stood, constructed of the finest Italian marble.

Now just skeletons, no doubt gussied-up in Sunday’s best:
The style of nobility—when we were noble, if we were noble.
Surely unimpressed with their mass grave,
the piles and piles of bones toppled in, one after another,
with precise, calculated carelessness by the workers.
Was it contempt?
As if the Marshes weren’t welcome, buried beyond church borders,
when Sunday in and out, we children fussed about in the front pews,
adults, preening peacocks, glanced about the room, white smiles in abundance.

Remove the bones of the dead and they shall rattle.
Gentle shake shake shake—it soothes me, like a baby,
much as the swooshing of a gray-tipped wing expanse of the gull,
now so close, as if they might carry me away.
Another pearl on their string!

Oh draw this ashen face to the sun,
make me whole again with your scintillating thread!
Yes, to be rid of Mother, to be rid of Louise and Georgia,
to be rid of MARSH,
to see the lake, it’s breaking waves,
where I would spend the days
swimming, floating, splashing, sinking,
Knowing that dark blue porthole of a lake.

Inspired by Andrea Kowch’s The Catch
Emalyne by Laurie Foster Palmer

Beneath a heavenless,
sloppy grey sky
she sits strictly,
like a dead-end debutante
in mother’s dining chair.

Emalyne, affixed to a field,
blown by the breath
of a beast matters not.
She knows
of greater dreads.

Pressed near her heart,
with a thousand black marks,
the door of a birdcage
she unfastens
after the strength grew up.

You can hear the caw
of crows flying eastward,
heartless black marks,
now clawing the firmament.

Emalyne waits a wicked time
for a dove to enter.

Inspired by Andrea Kowch’s Chosen
Chosen by Cassie Ann Ross

My past
flickered
in slits
of my eyes
I watched it – how hard
My soul worked
on Old,

My future
will flatten
in beats
of my heart
I hear it – how hard
My soul will work
on New,

My dress
whisks
in winds
of your breath
I feel it – how hard
My body works
on Borrowed,

My present
flashes
in moments
of my freedom
I sense it – how hard
My soul is working
on Blue,

Out
of the flock
to be chosen
by You.

Inspired by Andrea Kowch’s The Window
The Window by Jenna Schlosbon

oh buzzard,
pointed words dive from your tongue
like poison-centered sugar plums.
“Those poor shoelaces–just dragging upon the road”
(nobody wants chaos, she’s likely to explode!)
and “Those lovely nails–always chipped”
(she’s brazen with indifference!)
sourly sweet, your disapproval feeds me until
i’m seeping with inadequacy.
crunching upon the granules, i consume
your miniature daggers erecting my tomb.
i shrink and dissolve as you’re being fed,
(but i suppose you wouldn’t be here if i weren’t
already dead).

Inspired by Andrea Kowch’s The Catch
The Catch by Katie G

Cracked open like a ribcage;
Out of the heart’s door flies
A thousand tales on a thousand wings.

Her red coat, padding shoulders
That sag with the weakness of her command.
If there is no response to her call,
She should lose them all
But there is no freedom to consider such a thing.

She never moves her buried legs
Two sentinels on which she will stand her cause.
And the spareness of her face,
Waits to see
Which of her little heart soldiers
Will return -
Which must be replaced.