about painting

i don’t remember the moment

when art became important to me,

but i do remember when

i fell in love with mondrian.

while mrs. james loved pollock,

and would often sing his praises,

she at least made time for other voices.

i found all that splash and hiss

too bombastic, heavy-handed.

at that moment the terms were set:

it was either mondrian or pollock

(it would be years before i faced

picasso and cezanne, or

monet and matisse).

i suppose it need not have been

adversarial, but we must choose camps.

i loved the elegance of his project –

all those possible variations

with limited means. i spent hours

arranging and re-arranging

combinations of rectilinear bars

and blocks of red, yellow, and blue.

the elements seemed simple,

yet their effects maddeningly complex.

years later i visited the philadelphia museum of art

and visited the modern European art wing.

there, mondrian was paired with brancusi,

kindred spirits in their search for essences.

they were so small, and still

surprisingly thick and full

filigreed with cracks,

and no less elegant.

reunion

let’s get the band back together –

all of us in the same room again.

i’ve missed the friendly bickering,

all those passionate arguments.

i’m not even sure why we broke up –

something about choices, i think

who was sleeping with whom,

and the reasons why.

perhaps we were too inseparable,

it wasn’t just meals we shared

or workplace, or classes, or holidays.

it wasn’t how we protected each others’ secrets.

there was never any jealousy among us,

and we held all things in common.

then again, maybe it’s a bad idea after all,

fueled by nostalgia or loneliness.

perhaps we’re better off now,

having sloughed off the impetuousness of youth,

having lived through our many poor decisions,

and having forgotten the taste of them.

good night, sweet prince

this is

dumb.

i sit

at my

desk

fighting

tears.

i’m not

sure why.

i did not

know you.

only the

music.

only

that

persona,

staged.

a dynamo

whirling

in heels,

squeals:

his,

ours,

guitar –

in complete

control,

every

move,

every

beat,

every

eye.

some

songs

shape

you

(in your

youth);

some

songs

stay.

long

after

this

day,

still

i will

sing

your

songs.

old photographs

i regret that i may never know your child.
not that i ever thought it might be mine.
it’s just that we once shared something beautiful.
i see the photographs of you and your son,
and wonder what stories we would be sharing now
that we both have children. this is a mystery to me –
that we somehow both ended up with unexpected gifts.
to be honest, i never expected to have children.
i never anticipated being married. oddly,
i never imagined being married to you.

*

i had a dream about you last night.
that doesn’t happen often, or more rarely now.
to be accurate, i had a dream and you were in it.
i was sitting on a coffee shop patio watching people –
you were crossing the street and walked by the patio.
you didn’t seem to see me, and i found myself standing up.
perhaps you had forgotten my face – i am older now
with streaks of grey and extra pounds.
admittedly, i always thought i could never be forgotten.
it seems i might never forget you.

*

sometimes i am still afraid i will see you again
and i, being unprepared, will stop and stand stunned
into silence. i am afraid there will be words
unspoken, or worse, spoken and untamed.
or i am afraid there will be no words,
only my body remembering your body
and how our bodies together were beyond words.
i am afraid of the shadow that seeing you
casts on the present, the way it colours the past,
how the images stay with you, like rumours.

flowers

as the poet reads,

all i can think of is flowers.

she reads like she is singing –

her voice drops and then lifts,

she gestures wide with her arms,

hands aflutter.

she obviously loves words.

she must enjoy rolling them around in her mouth,

trying them on for size,

utility, impact.

allusiveness.

i once dated a poet…

it did not go well.

i fell in love with how she put words together,

and misread their sharpness

(recognized myself in her

poetry twenty years later).

that’s why i do not trust poets.

they always expect words to do more than their fair share,

they use them to wear down your will,

to encircle you and

mount your defenses.

they are sorcerers

conjuring fantasies and promises,

cajoling us to see more than the words

and yet the words elusive;

they place us in chains

and chained to possible meanings,

all our hopes and dreams

held in their busy little hands,

offering us these bouquets.