the face graved in stone
once felt the rain as
yours does now, fed the
children, watered the
garden, watched the rising
and setting
of the sun, counted the
mysteries on her fingers,
wondered at the future,
twisted the strands of
gold together until she
felt their strength, drew them
through the fabric, the
domestic arts of adornment
hers, even to the last
waited for her husband to
return from the war,
burnt meals,
and still swept the floor in the
face of death, pestilence,
and despair
03 June 2013
Jonas Bronck and the Dollar Savings Bank
at the Dollar Savings Bank Jonas
Bronck stands, perpetually in negotiation
with some Indians, sealing the
deal, making an exchange
while mother waits on line,
heavy rolls of coins weighing down
her everyday handbag, to his left the first stone
house is raised and a new
community started under the
same old sun, stone by stone,
the panels bordered in gilded goldleaf in
this palace of art deco, high-ceilinged, velvet-roped
and the teller with teased hair
wearing a green-black-pink-paisley blouse smooths back
an errant curl and gestures with
her eyes. Next. then back to the
burning sun outside, walking past Poe's
house and on to St. James Park, we
exchange time for money and, sometimes, time for art,
building up a life in this
new world
brick by brick, stone
by stone
Bronck stands, perpetually in negotiation
with some Indians, sealing the
deal, making an exchange
while mother waits on line,
heavy rolls of coins weighing down
her everyday handbag, to his left the first stone
house is raised and a new
community started under the
same old sun, stone by stone,
the panels bordered in gilded goldleaf in
this palace of art deco, high-ceilinged, velvet-roped
and the teller with teased hair
wearing a green-black-pink-paisley blouse smooths back
an errant curl and gestures with
her eyes. Next. then back to the
burning sun outside, walking past Poe's
house and on to St. James Park, we
exchange time for money and, sometimes, time for art,
building up a life in this
new world
brick by brick, stone
by stone
Portrait
light and dark fringed with
lace, another royal court
shown in the mirror, the face
of the artist half in shadow,
infant faces grave beyond their
age, lisping tongues long silent
stores of silver long exhausted, the
family histories unfurled like a
flag, motheaten, the holes like
those for the yellow ribbon fed through
the telex, another painting sold
to the highest bidder
lace, another royal court
shown in the mirror, the face
of the artist half in shadow,
infant faces grave beyond their
age, lisping tongues long silent
stores of silver long exhausted, the
family histories unfurled like a
flag, motheaten, the holes like
those for the yellow ribbon fed through
the telex, another painting sold
to the highest bidder
The Collector
the collector taps the catalogue
containing his great-grandmother's
pewter, the heat of the day
kept at bay by thickstone walls,
thin, leaded panes, pale walls
patterned with color, a carefully considered quilt
of all his acquisitions, on smooth-planed
shelves, too, the cut glass vitrines contain
several beating hearts, the credit panel for each labeled
in careful black and white, noting
their source and origin, written down, too,
in the black-bound book he habitually carries,
left, in a legacy, to his infant son
containing his great-grandmother's
pewter, the heat of the day
kept at bay by thickstone walls,
thin, leaded panes, pale walls
patterned with color, a carefully considered quilt
of all his acquisitions, on smooth-planed
shelves, too, the cut glass vitrines contain
several beating hearts, the credit panel for each labeled
in careful black and white, noting
their source and origin, written down, too,
in the black-bound book he habitually carries,
left, in a legacy, to his infant son
Mapping
having a cup of coffee with
him she surveys the
cool geometries of the
picture postcards from the
gift shop, all the
ragged edges of ragged
days erased, the blocks of
color egg-yolk-yellow, tomato-
red, thick-bordered by black, as if
highways to show where
she might go, if she were
able, a map without a
legend, no scenic markers to
mar her concentration
Here. I. Am.
There. I. Would. Be.
him she surveys the
cool geometries of the
picture postcards from the
gift shop, all the
ragged edges of ragged
days erased, the blocks of
color egg-yolk-yellow, tomato-
red, thick-bordered by black, as if
highways to show where
she might go, if she were
able, a map without a
legend, no scenic markers to
mar her concentration
Here. I. Am.
There. I. Would. Be.
Make Room for DADA
and baby says:
"dada"
making room for Dada and the
art in all we see....
words tumble across the
canvas
out of an ageless
Europe Dada erupts onto
the page, the spillage
of somersaulting
texts, the clipped eyes, the
fragmentary pasted back
together into a new whole,
wholly itself and no other,
disjointed limbs, the
uncanny mechanics holding it all
somehow, a new coherence
for a new age aborning, the ships
leaving the ports for the Americas
pulsate with a new vigor, the
father shocking his conventional
son across the pond, himself a bastard
child left, wrapped in a broadsheet manifesto,
at the door of the academy, the clicking
of their tongues a chorus
of insects in his ear, deafening in their
censure
and I say again:
now and for all time--
let there be art for all
let loose the floodgates of art
and for all to embrace
their art as they do a lover
leaving on a train,
breathing in their essence
until they are filled, entire
"dada"
making room for Dada and the
art in all we see....
words tumble across the
canvas
out of an ageless
Europe Dada erupts onto
the page, the spillage
of somersaulting
texts, the clipped eyes, the
fragmentary pasted back
together into a new whole,
wholly itself and no other,
disjointed limbs, the
uncanny mechanics holding it all
somehow, a new coherence
for a new age aborning, the ships
leaving the ports for the Americas
pulsate with a new vigor, the
father shocking his conventional
son across the pond, himself a bastard
child left, wrapped in a broadsheet manifesto,
at the door of the academy, the clicking
of their tongues a chorus
of insects in his ear, deafening in their
censure
and I say again:
now and for all time--
let there be art for all
let loose the floodgates of art
and for all to embrace
their art as they do a lover
leaving on a train,
breathing in their essence
until they are filled, entire
29 April 2013
Poem, "Onions" appearing in the May 2013 issue of Chronogram magazine......
Very pleased that my poem, "Onions" will be appearing in Chronogram!
http://www.chronogram.com/hudsonvalley/Home
Click here to visit Chronogram magazine.
16 April 2013
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