Modern Art
In the museums
the artists
have given up
their attempts
to limn the world
they see.
They know
it is not
a possible
translation -
all gouache
wash
and feeble
simulacrum.
They give us
what is only
possible
instead:
canvasses
color fields
lines of force
swirls and circles
blocks of wood
rusted steel -
the things
themselves.
Here too
is not
my heart
nor tears nor spirit.
Here’s alphabet
Here’s line here’s L
Here’s arc here’s C
Here’s exclamation !
Here’s stop .
Here’s you
still there -
me
still here
* * *
Present Absence
Actors are not
what they are.
They are
what they are not.
The man becomes
the king blusters
on the heath
moves us to pity
but he is not the king
and he is not
upon the moor -
speaks lines
on the floor
of the stage
disappears -
gives airy nothing
a local habitation
and a name.
what they are.
They are
what they are not.
The man becomes
the king blusters
on the heath
moves us to pity
but he is not the king
and he is not
upon the moor -
speaks lines
on the floor
of the stage
disappears -
gives airy nothing
a local habitation
and a name.
* * *
What It Takes
Give yourself some time
to dawdle, Antonio,
you need to lallygag awhile —
can’t be all business
all the time you know
there’s just no time for that
the buds on the apple trees
are opening in the sun
you need to tarry along the way
to see their blossoms blush
they won’t be here that long
you need to straggle
miss the bus be late
if you want to see
that teetering robin
leave its nest on the
sycamore near your house
nature takes her time
insists you linger
to reveal her
tender majesties
she’s dabbing the streets
with bright forsythia
opening violets upon the lawns
bracing daffodils
against the garden wall
waiting for you to pause -
waiting for you to see
to dawdle, Antonio,
you need to lallygag awhile —
can’t be all business
all the time you know
there’s just no time for that
the buds on the apple trees
are opening in the sun
you need to tarry along the way
to see their blossoms blush
they won’t be here that long
you need to straggle
miss the bus be late
if you want to see
that teetering robin
leave its nest on the
sycamore near your house
nature takes her time
insists you linger
to reveal her
tender majesties
she’s dabbing the streets
with bright forsythia
opening violets upon the lawns
bracing daffodils
against the garden wall
waiting for you to pause -
waiting for you to see