on the painting by Soutine
Cerét rolls over on a bed of flame
exposing an inflamed intestine turning
in upon itself. The garden’s burning
and the mill sags fallow on its frame.
Upheaval. Earthquake. A volcanic flow.
The bleeding mansard roof beguiles the plaster.
Permanent mementos of disaster
crack the lacquered surface high and low.
And on the yellow hill a gangling devil
relishes the foliating sky.
Impasto gray and blue surmount the wall,
a broken window taken for an eye.
A wheel unwinds. The leaning block and bevel
slide to the consoling balm of fall.
Museum of Modern Art
New York City
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November 14, 2010 at 12:15 pm |
love.
I was just telling my intern the other day, as we prepare to teach a poetry seminar next semester, that I never quite got the hang of iambic pentameter. Want to Skype into my class in February?
November 14, 2010 at 4:01 pm |
I might be able to swing that. But this would be a very bad example~,:^)