I obsessively alter minutia
thinking tonight’s brush stroke
might fix my odd composition
of tower windows reflecting
sea and islands, opening into dark interiors.
Why are most landscapes so empty?
is nature so divorced from us –
untrammeled dream illustrations —
that dirty handed man should not appear
in abstractions of love, in light and color.
Year after year my paintings pile up
crowd the walls, scream for attention.
Van Gogh rendered miner’s boots
cracked and worn, black and brown —
before color lifted
his evangelistic despair
into brilliant seas of grass.
Edvard Munch’s red angst–
She in a dark wood dream
hands against her ears,
Damian Hirst breaking convention
repeals all light and color
with dark, rotting bug abstractions,
elephant dung and the crucifixion,
with sights and smell appalling
evokes a worried introspection.
How far from beauty have we come,
what seed hides in dung?
Pizzazz – gladiators in the flicks,
chariots crashing around the pylons,
Hur diving between his horses.
Imagine Gable’s million-dollar gams
from ‘Pin Up Girl’, painted on B17s.
In the eighties,
alone in the Uffizi’s Botticelli room,*
I entered the Primavera,
and in this eternal dance,
*( no tourists, in 1986, ‘Libya Bomba Lampadusa,’)