TWO POEMS ABOUT CROWS

These are not about imaginary paintings, but very real and wonderful photographs by Victoria Blewer

 

THE CROW

After Victoria Blewer’s “On the Lookout”

 

There is a world

that is not 

yours. In the dark

tree, the crow 

holds layers.

She does not 

speak

to you.

Every thing

is the universe’s 

center.

Once you see—

remember.

 

 

Night Birds

After Victoria Blewer

 

The owl keeps asking

if I’m awake. All winter

I have not been

awake, or asleep.

 

A winter of—not

discontent, nothing

with that bloody edge—

but of something flat

 

and gray, of something

like despair.  The crows

don’t ask. They

do not care.

 

In the trees, bare

or not, under the sky,

starred or not,

they sit while my world

 

sleeps. Or not.

And when I wake

in my darkness

and remember,

 

this is a kind 

of comfort,

a kind of

relief.

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STILL LIFE WITH VAN GOGH’S EAR

Gala (Elena Ivanovna Diakonova), c. 1936

 

Pink chrysanthemums melt and spread

across the surface of the black-bound bible.

To the left, a clear glass jar of yellow pencils,

each with a small, fierce face and tiny

wings. The ear,

no longer fresh,

has dropped a bit of blood

on the Spanish lace table covering.

Outside the thinly-curtained window,

the sun shines over a field of what we presume

are red poppies. At least,

that’s what we’re meant to presume.

THE POET’S STUDY

THE POET’S STUDY

(oil on plywood, 4’ x 8’)

~after David Weinstock

Not a simple abstraction—

if there is such a thing 

as simply abstract—

but layered.

Ghosted.

 

Under the brown glaze, 

green—or rather,

greens—escaping 

like leaves,

blades,

tattered flags.

 

The finest edgings

of red,

fingered outward

like flame.

 

Are those human faces

in the cloudiness

at the center,

or pomegranates?

or are they cats,

or planets circling

a central sun,

or is it—a bowl?

Or is it merely the gold

at the center of everything?

THE SWING

THE SWING

~after Marc Chagall

 

His mouth is open, mid-sentence.

The soles of his shoes are yellow,

his pants are green, his jacket

is blue. The figure behind the swing

is a brown blur. The swing

is in mid-arc, coming toward

the artist. In the ether 

above the child, three cats

and a dog named Crazy

who is brown as Earth

are springing into being. 

Crazy went away once

for a fortnight. When he got home,

he fell asleep at once. The animals

came with the swinging child

when he drove from California

to Vermont in one day.  The cats

are named Thak, Willy, and Quilly.

They all died before you were born.

 

 

~Realized the next day that this is an imaginary Chagall painting. NOT Cassatt!

 

 

APRIL 10, 2019: REPORT

April 19, 2019: REPORT

 

Here in Vermont, for instance, it’s Spring. 

A robin sings in the scraggly pines

next to the drive. The sun rises through deep

pink cloud, so rain coming. Daffodil spikes,

free at last from the long weight

of snow, have pushed up through the mass of flat

leaves out by the mailbox.The dog says 

a rabbit, or something, under the yews.

The house smells like fresh coffee. The ink flows

easy, like the inconsequential

run-off brook through the woods beside the house.

The house still stands.

MORNING AFTER

(tempera, glitter, found objects on cardboard)

~after Linda Shere

Those splashes of color—

pink, green, yellow—

represent, I believe,

pajamas. Or

sleeping bags.

There’s a plate of—

cookies—on

the table.

Chocolate chip.

Or—possibly—

blueberry muffins?

No. Cookies. 

Art supplies everywhere–

paint, brushes, glue, clay.

Art everywhere.

There’s glitter on everything.

Well, almost everything.

Not on the muffins.

Cookies, I mean.

Feathers.

Coffee filters.

Small plastic animals.

3 hair ties 

or whatever

they’re called. 

Those elastic things.

I’ve never had a daughter,

so I really don’t know.