A proud angry painting-poem during a hard time, when great gifts flowed through my hands, from God through me to others... but not to me. I was powerful but empty. A dangerous phase for artists! Wild rants like this kept me from turning mean.

To others, at least. I managed to be plenty mean to me.

"Emily" means Dickinson, of course, a crag who's fed poets ever since; but her own eminence was barren; no love, no fame, and just snippets of time.

"Syncline" is a geological term for a dip or fold in strata. The word (and image) I wanted was really the opposite--a bulge that erodes faster because it's exposed--an anticline. But acrylic paint dries as fast and indelible as harsh words you regret, and by the time I realized I'd erred, the stratum of my ignorance had been fossilized forever.

Besides, anticline has one too many beats; and really, my first impulse was right. I was in a syncline. A slump. I was only a crag for others. Rain ran off my soul...

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