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
(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
~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.
VERMONT, FIRE SEASON: a triptych
~after Kari Hansen
It started low,
in the swamps. The red
flames smouldered, skipped,
spread to the hillsides,
the streets and gardens
of every village. Orange.
Near the end, it died
to an amber that flickered on
over the white and gray.
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.
THE DOG OF CHAUVET CAVE
Only one.
Painted in yellow ochre,
her black eyes shine with calcite.
Her teats are distended with milk,
her curved tail suggests motion.
You wouldn’t notice her.
Indeed, she was not noticed
for years since she is small,
overshadowed by the horses,
the lions and bulls;
since she was not officially domestic
for another twenty thousand years.
Beneath her, in the dust,
a fragment of mammoth bone.
Painted above her head,
a single handprint,
again in the yellow.
A small hand, carefully placed,
poised as if to caress.
PORTRAIT
(Neo-Realist School, mid 21st century)
ascribed to J. M. P.
She could be someone’s grandmother
with her pink cheeks, white hair
in a bun, the immaculate lace
collar fastened with a cameo.
She sits in an old-fashioned
lawn chair—a blue that clashes
with the blue sky and the blue
flowers of her dress. Her lips
are slightly parted in a slight
smile, but her eyes, as she stares
at the viewer, are challenging.
Both hands rest lightly on an
animal curled asleep on her lap.
It is the size of a small dog, but
do not be fooled. Notice
the fine brush-work.
The artist has perfectly rendered
each guard hair, each glossy quill.
THE DELPHIC ORACLE
~Mary Pratt, (Pre Raphaelite Sisterhood, 1848)
Smoke rises before the girl
seated on her three-legged stool.
Behind her, the cave mouth
shades into a purple dark.
The supplicant stands
like a pillar, her robes
still as sculpture.
Keep looking.
Smoke mingles
with thin cloud in the pale
sky, shaping horses.
Keep looking.
The supplicant’s arms are rising
toward the heavens. Listen.
Between the sky and the cave,
the oracle has begun to speak.
SIX WOMEN
(watercolor, 1932)
~after J. Fancher
Forget what you think
you know about perspective.
Somewhere beyond cubism
the women stand
on a peach cloud,
their shoulders touching.
They share one shoe,
a purple KEEN Praesidio,
every detail visible.
Don’t even attempt
to see their face.
EVERGLADES #5: May
(sawgrass and oil on road-kill alligator hide)
~Ray Hudson, 2017
The birds have gone.
No golden-slippered egret,
no blue-eyed cormorant,
no wading stork shielding
dark water with her wings.
Silence is absolute.
Mangroves
are weary, dusty.
In the fetid pools,
mosquitoes awaken.
Already the air
is thick with heat.
Alligator spoor—
dinosaur track,
tail-drag—
marks the muddy flats
like the handwriting
of the blind.
GladErrand 