I had the pleasure last Friday of going with my friend Chris and her son to the Art Institute in Detroit. Chris had never been to an art museum before, and her 19 year old had done a drive by once. The boy needed help with a homework assignment for college, so I happily played docent. The folks at the DIA just finished a six year remodel of the space, and were holding a big grand re-opening who de do. I think both Chris and Josh enjoyed the art, the DIA has some wonderful pieces. Chris shared my interest in Art Nouveau, and Josh seemed to be taken in by the Rivera murals. I recommend the joint if you're in town. Anyhow, here is an old poem inspired by Cezanne.
The Widow, Like The Bankers Son
The widow, like the bankers son
sits at the mirror dreaming
Dreaming of years, which sharpen their claws
and hiss
like a 3am phone call.
We float on a canvas for a moment
then one to the sea of salty tears
and one to the rain.
Rain rises from the sea, and a summer night rises
and wraps around her
like fingers on a red dress.
The widow like the bankers son
rose from the mirror
thinking for an instant
that she sees in the glass
the telltale stroke of the artist.
No comments:
Post a Comment