Sunset (Paul Klee)

#61

The day has taken a billion ages to die.
No more than mathematical points, infinite
In any space defined or without compass,
We, our thoughts, motes in a god's eye,
God's tearful eye, are not (at least) indefinite.
We are both dark energy and dark mass.
Something beyond the sun points to us.
A light beyond any spectrum we know,
Like a thought, but even more like a reason,
An unimaginable generator of purposes,
Flies at us, at our minds, not like an arrow,
To pierce, but with a kiss's intent, a frisson.
It takes only a day for all our suns to set.
Sadly, that light is what we'll least regret.

The Philosopher's Conquest (De Chirico)

#60

Some of us still live in Plato's cave.
We watch shadows of banners on the ground,
Think the wind blows because they wave.
The clock strikes 1:28 without a sound.
The white sails and smoke from schooners
And passenger trains stop us in our tracks,
Deliver us from all evil two minutes sooner.
What's more ethical, smoke from a stack?
We must beat cannonballs into artichokes
If our will to power be apotropaic.
I think, therefore I am a brainy bloke,
Make skies green with my mental voltaic.
The real world is both sweet and absurd.
Philosophers are only made of words.

Cupid Chastised (Bartolomeo Manfredi)

#59

Of course, Mars is angry. That's his nature.
And Venus should divert his anger with love.
Poor Cupid was only doing his job, to move
Desire; mischievous, but not misbehavior.
Consider, the boy inflames the God of War
Towards the Goddess of Love, his mother.
Yes, some uproar among the gods ensues.
Venus and Mars are derided, labeled fools.
Did Cupid intend another sister or brother,
Or to soften the eternal wrath of Mars
By ambush, with a lover's show of arms?
He didn't count on being struck to the floor,
Or a Mars invulnerable to a Venus' alarm.
Each god must despise the thing he stands for.

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.