glimmer-green dancers
flow in Sarabande rhythm
beneath the footbridge
music travels through space, time
captured by the artist’s brush
Claude Monet, The Japanese Footbridge and the Water Lily Pool, Giverny, 1899
The Mr. and Mrs. Carroll S. Tyson, Jr., Collection, 1963
Philadelphia Museum of Art
Claude Debussy, Sarabande pour le Piano, L95
This is a tanka for Colleen Chesebro’s Weekly Poetry Challenge.
The prompt words were music and art.
I open the letter, read the words again and again. But they don’t change. They recount the battle and your acts of bravery. They describe the sudden storm, a tempest that battered your ship against the rocks, as you were journeying home to me. I had warned you not to go. I told you of my dream, where the storm clouds gathered and flew like demons, covering the moon, and you appeared beside me, cold and still, dripping, smelling of the sea, smelling of decay. I felt the pain then, clean and sharp in my breast. You laughed at my fears, called me Cassandra. Perhaps I am, for you did not believe me. I look at the ring on my finger and think of this other love-pledge you have given me, feel him flutter-kick in my womb. A son. He’ll be born in the spring. I will tell him about you.
ghosts drift in moonlight
clouds obscure the pale glowing
drops like silver tears
Johannes Vermeer, “Woman in Blue Reading a Letter,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
This haibun is for Colleen Chesebro’s Weekly poetry challenge. The prompt words were clean and sharp. I’ve also used this week’s Secret Keeper’s prompt. The words: | OPEN| ROCK| RING | ACT | LETTER |
Jane Dougherty used the Vermeer image above for a post this week, also using Secret Keeper’s Words. I like it so much, that I decided to steal use it, too. The painting is carefully constructed and illuminated, of course, but I also like the literacy of the woman that is portrayed as unexceptional. Also, though it is most likely the fashion, the woman in the painting does look pregnant.
“And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.”
–William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 5, Scene 1
“The system here is rigid, strict, and hopeless solitary confinement. I believe it, in its effects, to be cruel and wrong. I hold this slow, and daily, tampering with the mysteries of the brain to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body.”
–Charles Dickens, 1842
A prison taint was on everything there. The imprisoned air, the imprisoned light, the imprisoned damps, the imprisoned men, were all deteriorated by confinement. As the captive men were faded and haggard, so the iron was rusty, the stone was slimy, the wood was rotten, the air was faint, the light was dim. Like a well, like a vault, like a tomb, the prison had no knowledge of the brightness outside, and would have kept its polluted atmosphere intact in one of the spice islands of the Indian ocean.
–Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit
In the deep soft blue of night,
a full bright moon murmurs
which path would you stroll
always night
or beautiful dawn?
Would you breath the sweet air of ancient breezes?
I ponder mysteries of life and time,
the paths we choose, the where and when
the roads that make us who we are
the journeys that lead to discoveries,
do the words I write,
the forms of things unknown,
take flight across the world,
in a poetry chaos theory
to effect change?
One of my writer workout shirts.
I’m at a book fair,
I don’t sell many books,
my profits come from knowledge gained
or reaffirmed,
books have power,
the reason why slaves are not taught to read,
they release the minds of those bound by ignorance
they free those imprisoned by walls of stone
or by barricades of bigotry,
they build bridges of enlightenment,
people are drawn to them
in excitement, wonder, and surprise
I watch the boy’s eyes
open wide at the thought of reading magical adventures
then disappointment,
“My mom doesn’t have any money.”
“Today is your lucky day, says the author,
“I have something special,
a free book for you–
see, the cover is slightly damaged.”
He signs the book for the boy
who takes it,
holds it reverently,
a treasure.
I hope he remembers this moment.
West Deptford Township Book Festival. Yes, I did bake cookies, too.
My husband and I visit the art museum
not for any particular exhibition,
“Sunday at the museum,” someone says,
people there from all over the world
(even though the “Rocky Steps” are closed)
I hear many languages: French, Chinese, Russian.
We walk through the Impressionists,
see the real and surreal,
View from the Duchamp Gallery, Philadelphia Museum of Art
look at art and people,
adults and children,
viewed and viewers.
Reading at the Museum—Mary Cassatt, Family Group Reading (c. 1901) Philadelphia Museum of Art
We walk from the museum
across the Parkway to Fairmount
and on to Eastern State Penitentiary,
the world’s first penitentiary,
conceived with a purpose–
to induce penitence in its prisoners,
the original building completed in 1836,
though the process began earlier
with efforts to relieve the conditions of the Walnut Street Jail,
in 1787, Dr. Benjamin Rush founded a group to reform prisons,
The Philadelphia Society for Alleviating the Miseries of Public Prisons,
an organization that still exists,
the new penitentiary is thought to be humane,
a wonder of technology and innovation,
a central hub with spokes,
cells with plumbing and heat
designed by architect John Haviland,
but prisoners were cut off from human contact
and sometimes went insane.
Charles Dickens wrote of the torture of solitary confinement
and later the prison became too crowded for the concept to continue,
a second tier of cells was built
and prisoners shared cells.
We listen to actor Steve Buscemi
tell us about it in the audio tour,
we’ve been here before,
but it is good to be reminded,
and there are new exhibits we haven’t seen
there are other visitors and tour groups,
but when it is quiet, without other visitors around,
I feel the ghosts around me
there amidst the rubble
Prisoners
in dark fevered air
decayed concrete and old secrets,
a dirt home
listen to who was
they live not
but almost open,
in time
It is a reminder
of good intentions gone wrong,
yet there are traces of beauty and goodness,
even here,
the tales of good and humane guards
the art created by inmates,
the synagogue
The original synagogue door. (For my blogger friend, Robin.)
but still there are ghosts,
the imprisoned,
some died here,
and I have no answers for those who are imprisoned still
but I hope they have books and art
and that their minds can roam, even if their bodies cannot
do they wonder about the paths of their lives?
Which path would you stroll
always night
or beautiful dawn?
Would you breath the sweet air of ancient breezes?
Tonight I dream of wide-eyed boys
of beauty and art
amidst decayed walls
a cat purrs softly in my ear,
I am home, but my mind roams free.
The kind author was Ben Anderson, who shared a table with me at the West Deptford Township Book Festival at Riverwinds Community Center. His books are chronicles of Irish fantasy, targeted for middle grade readers, but suitable for “eight to eighty-eight” he says. You can read about them here .
We joke about the Magnetic Poetry Oracle, but she gave me this poem (incorporated above) the morning of the day we went to visit Eastern State Penitentiary. She also came me part of the opening.
You can find out more about Eastern State Penitentiary here. Here is an article on programs for prison literacy. And a list of additional resources here.
The Philadelphia Museum of Art is always worth visiting, even with construction going on.
“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.”
–Leonardo da Vinci
“I dream my painting and I paint my dream.”
–Vincent Van Gogh
My sisters and I call each other
“No one’s dead,” we quickly chirp,
a macabre affirmation of life,
a precaution for my perpetually panicked sister-niece,
(she answers the phone expecting disaster)
we laugh—because what can you do?
but then comes news of two deaths over the weekend,
my husband’s former colleague and a college friend,
we’re of a certain age now,
most of our friends have lost at least one parent,
some both,
middle-aged orphans,
I think about links to the past,
disappearing the way beads slide off string one by one
and I watch a miniseries about the Gay Rights Movement
see again the AIDS quilt,
memories squared and love-knotted,
blanketing the National Mall,
a memorial, a declaration
we protest with poetry and art,
against wars, against injustice,
fighting for the right to live
and to die in dignity,
(love is love is love is love)
in the epic story of our lives,
we are the heroes,
and its tragic victims
We dream and we create,
our lives, like intricately folded origami
unfolded in a split second,
a discovery that the crane
is now simply a wrinkled bit of paper
We take my mother to our daughter’s house for brunch,
my mother, once a child, now the matriarch,
a ninety-four-year-old orphan
her parents, her brother, and many of her friends are gone,
she can barely see, but still she paints
the vision must be in her mind and hands
felt, rather than seen,
poetry in paint,
tactile sensibility,
she has her first mimosa
and we talk of this and that
old hairstyles, Dallas nightclubs,
stories my daughter has never heard before
of a world and people that no longer exist,
I imagine a mirror with endless reflections
and the world through the looking glass
We’re through the looking glass in a mirrored room, transported to an 18th century French palace. Philadelphia Museum of Art
we laugh over misunderstood words
the kind of laughter that brings tears,
and we are entertained by pets,
sitting in the kitchen,
a domestic scene,
that could come from the past,
generations sitting around a table
My husband and I go to an exhibition of watercolors
an amazing show, 175 paintings on display,
the show traces the history–
how watercolor became an American medium
from what was essentially work done in the home,
by women, decorative artists, as well as illustrators
becomes much more after the Civil War
and Philadelphia,
with publications and art schools
becomes a center
The exhibition describes the painters’ techniques
the importance of the paper in the watercolors,
various textures and colors
watercolors are luminous, but fragile
reflecting light,
but also, fading in light,
the picture dies
the image no longer exists,
and I think of the building, landscapes, and people in the paintings
that no longer exist
except in these depictions
where the sun still shines and wind still blows
and alligators huddle together in the mud,
lethargic beasts with deadly grins
at night, I dream of light and art,
I paint my dream into a poem,
a dream of misty luminosity with opaque spots
brushed by the artist
(look there closely at the strokes)
on an unusual type of paper, with texture both rough and smooth
folded over and over,
to form different creases,
like wrinkles on faces in time
endless, like reflections in a mirror
Information:
We watched the miniseries, When We Rise
We saw the exhibition, “American Watercolor in the Age of Homer and Sargent”
You can see a trailer on the Philadelphia Museum of Art Website.
It is a stunning exhibition, but because watercolors are fragile, it will only be seen in Philadelphia. No photography is permitted.
“Writing is a job, a talent, but it’s also the place to go in your head. It is the imaginary friend you drink your tea with in the afternoon.”
–Ann Patchett, Truth & Beauty: A Friendship
“Those dripping crumpets, I can see them now. Tiny crisp wedges of toast, and piping-hot, flaky scones. Sandwiches of unknown nature, mysteriously flavoured and quite delectable, and that very special gingerbread. Angel cake, that melted in the mouth, and his rather stodgier companion, bursting with peel and raisins. There was enough food there to keep a starving family for a week.”
–Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca
“Art bears witness to human existence through the prism of beauty.”
– – Wajdi Mouawad
Art, the creative impulse,
my husband and I
witnessed it in many ways over the past few days
We see the movie Manchester By the Se,a
the acting is exceptional
making us feel like we know these people.
We’ve met people like them,
ordinary and unique,
as we all are,
the New England backdrop reflecting the characters,
gritty, hard, seemingly unyielding, but fluid,
and grief comes in waves like the sea.
Later, after our dinner at a Thai restaurant,
I say to my husband,
We didn’t discuss the sound track.*
It was beautiful, but I was so aware of it—perhaps it was even a bit intrusive?
What was in the soundtrack? I didn’t notice it.
He tends to listen to music when he is working.
I do not. It’s already in my head.
We carry the essentials with us.
The next day we go to tea.
More accurately, we go to lunch
in a tea room.
He gave me the gift card almost a year ago,
we finally use it.
The room is quaintly Victorian,
or perhaps Edwardian.
We chose our teas and have a full spread.
(More than the essentials.)
We talk of this and that,
cozy in dining room
with Christmas music playing in the background
a break from work,
a small retreat,
and I understand how this became a ritual,
it is difficult to discuss weighty issues over small, crustless sandwiches
and dainty iced cakes.
I think of tea parties and Tea Party,
attempts to return to a time that never was,
like this tea room,
an escape from reality.
He eats some of my sandwiches,
I take home some of my sweets.
Afterward, we go for wine,
we have a shipment to pick up at a local winery
We sit, sipping wine
discussing this and that again
timeless moments
watching the sky,
warmed by space heaters,
music comes from a frog speaker nearby
and I wonder if there’s a metaphor there
but I can’t find it,
it slips away,
unessential
and there is already too much that I carry
in my heart and mind.
Heritage Vineyards
The day after,
(Sunday by now)
we visit the museum
we get there just after opening,
Again, we go through the exhibition on Mexican artists
who painted the revolution,
who were revolutionary,
(And perhaps all artists are)
overturning the flotsam and jetsam in their brains,
discarding the unnecessary
salvaging the essentials from the debris.
We see Diana surrounded by Christmas lights
I share a moment with Renoir’s “Washerwoman,”
So many forms of art
created and collected.
We stop for free coffee (also essential)
It is members’ day. Yay!
Next we go to a play
I must say I’ve never seen anything like it
Seuls—alone
The artist asks:
Qui sommes-nous? Qui croyons-nous êtres? (Who are we? Who do we think we are?)
I should mention that the play is in French—a bit of Arabic—with the English translation projected on a screen.
It is a one-man show,
not autobiographical exactly
but based somewhat on Wajdi Mouawad’s life
As a child, forced by war in Lebanon,
his family left for Canada,
his and his character’s,
As a child, Harwan, the character,
counted the stars in the night sky,
he tried to paint them
he wanted to be a shooting star.
When they left Beirut, they brought only the essentials.
What happened to his paintings, he wonders?
and what if they had never left?
Harwan is struggling to finish his doctoral dissertation,
to find a conclusion.
His relationship with his father is fraught with words unsaid
in French or Arabic,
and broken memories–
it is the story of immigrants
and artists
Harwan, goes to St. Petersburg,
he has mistakenly packed paint instead of clothing.
Only the essentials?
His father is in a coma from an accident.
Or is he?
We travel with the character, with the artist
to a place inside his mind,
perhaps.
The story of the prodigal son is told,
a son’s journey
a father’s forgiving heart,
a story told and retold
we paint the story of our lives,
we bring the essentials,
bearing witness
we paint over truth and lies,
we create new truths
we are alone—together–
and on a stage, the artist is alone
but we are there with him.
After the play, I say
We will have much to talk about.
I need to think about what I’ve just seen,
My husband says.
We walk through City Hall to the courtyard.
Once the world’s tallest building,
completed in 1901.
Now there are taller buildings
but this one is unique,
beloved cultural icon topped by the statue of William Penn
we walk through the Christmas village,
we drink hot, mulled wine
I watch my husband watch the children posing for photos
with a man dressed as The Grinch
they shriek and laugh as he changes his pose
my husband laughs, too.
We stroll some more,
I wonder what creatures from other worlds would make of
our need for light
to brighten the darkness,
our joy in tea and wine,
and Christmas baubles,
We carry joy and sadness
in our souls,
we create and recreate light in the darkness,
we generate new worlds within our minds
construct, paint, and
imagine the impossible
to discover the essential
bearing witness to our existence.
*Lesley Barber, “Manchester By the Sea Chorale”
We went to Amelia’s Teas & Holly
Seuls, Written, Directed, and Performed by Wajdi Mouawad
At the Wilma Theater
Christmas Village in Philadelphia
“The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.”
–L.P. Hartley
“This play is so American. . .[it] shows us that transformation can only happen when we break apart our fears, our suspicions and our judgments. Because the America I know is not the one that is portrayed by only a few, isn’t the one that discriminates against its citizens for their differences. NO. The America I know and cherish and honor is one that all these characters are creating.”
— Emmanuelle Delpech, From her Director’s Notes, The Legend of Georgia McBride, Arden Theatre, Philadelphia
When was the last time the four of us had spent a day together at a museum?
We all wondered, but couldn’t remember,
somewhere amidst childhood’s ghosts
left behind with dolls and story books,
ghosts of Halloweens past
when little girls dressed in costumes
that they slept in,
a princess and a clown
(not a creepy one at all).
And so we went,
a family outing,
our girls married women now,
but still crazy sisters, having fun,
interpreting the works of art
And since the big new exhibit is on Mexican revolutionary art
and it’s close to Halloween
there are Day of the Dead displays
We eat Wawa hoagies*
(My daughter misses them in Boston.)
I score Super Momma points
by making hot fudge sauce,
totally spur of the moment
(in record time)
so we can have it with our coffee ice cream
as we watch Grey’s Anatomy
It’s another ghost from the past.
It is Halloween weekend,
my husband and I go to the theater
(which, I guess fits, when you think about it)
In the play,
a man discovers his inner femininity—
becoming a drag queen,
with the help of a real drag queen.
After a slow start,
the play picks up
struts its stuff,
so to speak,
along with the actors,
a feel good show
about finding your passion
and not giving up,
accepting those who are different from you.
A good lesson, don’t you think?
After the show, we drink coffee
sitting on a bench outside of Christ Church in Philadelphia.
a beautiful October day,
we watch the people in the present
learning about the people of the past,
as they walk in and about the beautiful eighteenth-century church
where George Washington, Benjamin Franklin and others attended services.
We walk the streets, some still cobbled,
where founding fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers
once walked,
where free and bound lived and worked.
None of them was perfect,
neither are we.
But the past is a foreign country.
people then did not know all we know now
(perhaps we have lost some of their knowledge, too)
Progress and human rights come slowly
as babies crawl tentatively before they walk and then run eagerly
to explore the world.
So are there stages
of nations
that rise and fall.
And of discoveries that humans uncover and embrace with hesitation
or delight.
Thirteen colonies came together,
representatives walked the streets we now walk,
worked together to fight for independence,
and later, to form a more perfect union,
evolving over centuries
with greatness from the start,
along with evils,
slavery, racism, sexism, xenophobia.
We should not move backwards
to the foreign country of the past,
not regress, but rather progress,
build upon the great to make greater.
We travel to another part of Philadelphia,
Fairmount Park,
one of the largest urban parks in the world.
We are there for a Lupus Run/Walk
my younger daughter and her husband run,
my husband and I walk,
some people drag their heels,
some are in drag,
well, costumes.
There is a team of Star Wars characters,
others in purple tutus,
a sea of purple t-shirts.
We begin at Memorial Hall
(now the Please Touch Children’s Museum)
with its figure of Columbia at the top,
it was an art museum,
constructed for the Centennial Exhibition in 1876,
a huge exhibition with many buildings
and many visitors.
A Women’s Pavilion gave women a chance to display and demonstrate
the new opportunities available to them in professions and business
there were displays of dress reforms, too.
But women were segregated in their own pavilion,
and still denied the vote.
And so we run/walk through
beautiful Fairmount Park
passing statues of Civil War generals
and the Japanese Tea house
I imagine women in suffragist white,
ghosts flitting among the statues
I think they would echo
“When they go low, we go high,”
standing calm amidst storms of hate.
Women have always had to fend off and fight
the gropers and grabbers,
and some of them loved other women
though not out in the open.
I amuse myself by imaging Susan B. Anthony
reading grievances while drag queens in the audience cheer.
(This did not happen.)
But the past is a foreign country
we can’t impose our views on it.
Our own pasts, well, perhaps they change
with, in, our memories
which are imperfect.
merging and shifting,
taking on new tones and meanings.
On this Halloween
my memories of Halloween past
merge with the present.
I think about the future,
We are at the crossroads,
there are ghosts all around.
We must push back the hate and fear.
We dream.
A wise man once had a dream
of freedom for all
freedom for those of every color, of any religion.
He was killed by hate.
But still we dream.
I think about the future
with dread
with longing
with hope
with dreams.
*Hoagie is the Philadelphia name for a sandwich served on a long, tapered roll. Wawa is a convenience store chain that is much beloved in parts of Pennsylvania and southern New Jersey.
We saw The Legend of Georgia McBride by Matthew Lopez at the Arden Theatre.
The Please Touch Museum/Memorial Hall
On suffragists on Independence Day 1876, see this.
Martin Luther King, Jr., I Have a Dream speech.
By Felix Nussbaum, “Lovers,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
“Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I’m gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love.”
–Leonard Cohen, “Dance Me to the End of Love”
Felix and Miriam hurried to reach the new hiding place along the coast. Felix had lost count of the number of places in which they’d hidden. Was it four? Five? In each, he had painted or sketched with whatever materials he could find. The urge to create was powerful.
Although most waterways were heavily fortified, Felix had been told the patrols in this rocky area were infrequent. Still, he wished the night was not so clear.
“I could swim to freedom from here, even with the rocks and waves,” said Miriam. She was a champion swimmer before war and restrictions intervened.
“You could, my little fish,” he replied, as he looked around. Something about the deserted quay did not feel right to Felix. He had always trusted his instincts.
“You hide here,” he told her. “I have a bad feeling about this place. If it’s OK. I’ll let you know. If it’s a trap, you must run for freedom.”
“But I can’t leave you,” Miriam replied.
“You must. For the sake of our child.” He put his hand on her belly.
She nodded. “First though, we must make a wish on that bright star.”
They held hands and closed their eyes. Then Felix clutched her, kissed her, and left.
He entered the deserted building. In the seconds before the Germans kicked in the door, he heard a faint splash in the distance. He had a good feeling that his wish had come true, and Miriam had escaped. He smiled as they beat him, knowing in his soul, that at least one of his creations would survive.
This is in response to Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge.
The prompt was the painting above by Felix Nussbaum. His family were German Jews who had been proud Germans. His father was a WWI veteran. Felix and his wife, Felka, also an artist, hid in several locations before they were discovered and sent to concentration camps. Felix Nussbaum’s entire family was murdered at Auschwitz. The Leonard Cohen song played in my mind with this painting.
ceridwen [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
“Guernica at the Whitechapel It is no idle whim to include an image of this tapestry reproduction of Picasso’s great anti-war painting but because it is so significant for the political and cultural stance of the Whitechapel Gallery, the only British venue to exhibit the painting in 1939. The original work is now too fragile to leave Madrid; this tapestry was loaned to the gallery, for its re-opening, by its owner Margaretta Rockefeller. Normally it hangs in the United Nations in New York where in 2003 it was controversially veiled prior to a speech by Colin Powell on the eve of the Iraq war.”
“The purpose of art is to lay bare the questions that have been hidden by the answers.”
–James Baldwin
After the tragedy,
in the calmness after the storm,
then we hear about the heroes.
On that sunny September day,
fifteen years ago,
as a gentle breeze blew,
and the world’s course shifted,
there were soldiers and fire fighters,
there were flight attendants and passengers,
there were ordinary people
who were decent and kind
who helped others before themselves,
and who became heroes.
From the hell of the Warsaw ghetto,
Irena Sendler saved hundreds of children,
burying their real names in jars,
and though she was captured,
interrogated, tortured,
she did not give up the information,
then, forced to hide herself,
like the children and their names,
she waited, till
after the wind blew
and the course shifted,
so she could dig up the jars
and return the children to their families–
if any relatives remained.
Decades later,
school children in Kansas
(a place known for violent winds)
began researching her life
inspired by the classroom motto
“He who changes one person, changes the world entire.”
They researched, developing a performance piece,
that captured the attention of the people in their area–
and then a larger area.
They discovered that Irena Sendler was then still alive,
and wrote to her, sharing the correspondence with universities
and other groups,
raising funds, and finally meeting her and some children she had rescued,
One called them, “rescuer’s, rescuers of Irena’s story.”
They were children, now adults,
who wrote about a woman, who worked bravely to change the world,
and in their work about her,
they, too, hoped to change the world,
one person at a time.
I think about the censoring of artists,
the silencing of poets and painters,
of novelists, musicians, and dancers
who proclaim truth and dare to create
silenced by dictators,
the strong men admired by someone here
who can spout his hate-filled rhetoric
only because our Constitution
allows for freedom of speech and expression.
Yet he would like to censor the press.
Is this the definition of irony?
I remember sitting, mesmerized before “Guernica”
decades ago in New York
I can still feel the power of that Picasso work
and remember those moments
though the other details of that college trip remain hazy.
The painting itself was in exile,
returning only after the death of the dictator, Franco,
but by then Picasso was also gone.
On a beautiful September evening
we sit in the city of Philadelphia,
we drink wine as a gentle breeze blows,
we see a performance piece,
a sort of homage to James Baldwin,
“Notes of a Native Song,”
created by Stew and Heidi Rodewald,
a memorable evening of music and social commentary
that is a reaction or celebration of Baldwin
rather than an adaptation of his work.
On this September night
as a gentle wind blows
I think about artists
and about heroes
I think about the winds of war
and the changing course of political winds
I think about artists
I think about heroes
And I think
sometimes they are one and the same.
“I love America more than any other country in the world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually. I think all theories are suspect, that the finest principles may have to be modified, or may even be pulverized by the demands of life, and that one must find, therefore, one’s own moral center and move through the world hoping that this center will guide one aright. I consider that I have many responsibilities, but none greater than this: to last, as Hemingway says, and get my work done.
I want to be an honest man and a good writer.”
–James Baldwin, Notes of a Native Son
Information:
“Life in a Jar: The Irene Sendler Project
Marc Chagall,Le somnambule, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
I.
Moonlight
bathes the figures
balancing and shaking
unsure, spirits of the night world
dreamscape
This is in response to Jane Dougherty’s Poetry Challenge. This week’s challenge was a cinquain based on the painting above.
I felt like I wanted to say more though based on this painting and Chagall’s other works.
II.
Perilous times.
The moon hums a warning
watching over night-dreamers
and silent screamers
paralyzed with fear.
Uncertainty reigns
at the precipice
the fiddler keeps his balance–
barely.
The roof is steep,
His bows slides, the tune changes
shifts to minor,
a dirge punctuated by the drumbeat of fear
and hate
in the distance,
coming closer.
Edvard Munch, Kiss By the Window, Public Domain, Wikipedia.
Inside the house, lamps and hearths glowed, banishing the darkness of the Norwegian winter. As they stood by the window, Fredrik gently placed the pearl necklace around her neck. The lustrous white spheres were cool against her skin. He kissed her, first gently, and then with more urgency. The faint scent of his pipe tobacco clung to his clothes. A knock at their bedroom door made them break apart, as her maid, Sonya, announced that their first dinner guests had arrived. Elisabeth vowed to remember everything about that December night forever. It was her twenty-fifth birthday.
Now alone in her hospital bed, body aching, she watched that memory, a movie in her mind. It had been nearly seventy years ago; twenty years since she had last heard Fredrik’s voice. She sensed—something–the air felt charged. She smelled pipe smoke. She heard a voice say, “Are you ready, my darling? I’ve missed you so.” Her heart fluttered. She noticed a window draped in blue, a fire burning in fireplace. She felt a necklace, cool against her throat. She smiled. She took Fredrik’s hand and walked with him into the glowing light.
This story is in response to Jane Dougherty’s Microfiction Challenge. The prompt was the painting above with a two hundred word limit; mine was 191 words.
