The Adoration of the Kings (Jan Gossaert, "Mabuse")

#58

A convention of Renaissance nativity scenes:
The ruined stone architecture, as though Christ
Could not be born in a hovel, nor in a palace
Of new magnificence, befitting the King of Kings.
The crumbling pretensions, the unearned rights
And privileges of men, of good will or malice,
Who take or inherit power, surround the Child.
Then who are these kings to show adoration,
Who offer gold while angels gather overhead?
What is being redeemed, what evil exiled?
Will each king, restored, return to his nation,
Resurrect the rights of the living? Of the dead?
A dog tears at a scrap in the foreground,
A perfect imitation of a hungry hound.

The Poor Fisherman (Pierre Puvis De Chavannes)

#57

The man's greatest weapon is patience.
He can stand and wait, perfectly still,
As long as the elements don't interfere.
He doesn't believe in anything but chance.
Though he cannot eat what he cannot kill,
An empty net is not his deepest fear.
The boy is still healthy, but he worries Aimee
Has become pale and her milk is gone.
She gathers useless flowers and sings,
"They are not for me, but for my family."
He thinks the same of the sea and sun.
At times, when the bay is full of nothing,
Exhausted by his empty regrets,
He dreams himself diving into the net.

The Fishbowl Fantasy (Edward Goodes)

#56

Through the window, two ladies promenade
Under blue sky in bonnets with white plumes.
This is the room they'll return to at six
When all flowers and reflections fade.
The pointing of the mauve glove assumes
There is significance in the crucifix.
One goldfish appears to be frightened,
The other dull-witted, perhaps just bored.
They are on the edge of being enlightened,
Their faith in something soon to be restored.
For years they've watched the golden doves
Kissing, envied the drooping of their wings.
There is perfection when nothing moves,
When the gold light dies with the evening.

Note: The first lines refer to reflections in the
fishbowl. Click on the image to enlarge it,
which will make the reflected images more
visible.

Golconda (Magritte)

#55

The rain of men is no accident,
Nor this particular universe.
In another there are schools
Of big blondes made of cement,
Each clutching a scaly purse.
The multiverse has so few rules.
Consider the raincoat and bowler,
The antitheses of all things solar.
They multiply in certain states
Like nuclear missiles and hate.
Here they are blessedly frozen
In space, equidistant but fixed.
In another time or dimension,
They might drop like pick-up sticks.

In this world there are no tricks.
Only rain falls, sometimes bombs,
Or the odd, suicidal accountant.
Scientists insist the quantum mix
Is inconceivably random,
Cosmologically inconstant.
(Wait, just like that rain of men!)
J. S. Bach has not just walked
Into this room, whirling a grogger.
All who agree on reality say, "Amen."
The windows have all been caulked,
Whatever rains. Let science augur
Eleven dimensions and uncertainty,
I'll join these gents for a cup of tea.

Time Transfixed (Magritte)

#54

It is seventeen minutes to one.
The candlesticks are all empty
As they've been for all eternity,
Because of a window and a sun.
The mirror reflects the back of things
We see first hand. There is no second.
The train appears as though beckoned,
Flies on smoke and shadow wings.
No fire has ever burned in the fireplace,
No sign of ash, no sooty smudges.
Only the mind fixing this room budges,
Urging us deeper into interior space.
Look away, it's twelve forty-four.
The minute lost is yours no more.

Evening Landscape With Rising Moon (Van Gogh)

#53

Some painters depict. Some painters see.
It is unclear if Van Gogh even wanted us
To view his world of vibrating color
Moving faster than light, his string theory.
Each brushstroke is abstract, fibrous,
A strict, short thread, a measure
As fixed as E in a cosmic equation.
Unclear, because we sense a desperation,
A mania to eject onto space within a frame
A vision too intense for his soul to contain
(Not the insular effusion of the insane).
The painting contains things we can name:
Moon, hills, clouds, sky, hay,
But nothing we can see any other way.

Primavera (Botticelli)

#52

It's Spring and Goddesses are with child:
Queen, handmaidens, sisters, all,
Though one may have been defiled.
Not by Cupid, who gets away with Murder,
His arrows inflicting Lover's Pall.
Nor young Mercury with his caduceus
Resisting threats to the Natural Order.
No, suspicion falls on Zephyrus,
Whose puffed cheeks and pallor
Terrify Flora and draw a flower
From her mouth, in mockery of birth.
Venus looks upon us, the Human Races,
With envy, ignored by oblivious Graces.
Primavera drops dry petals to the Earth.