The Rapidity of Sleep (Tanguy)

#28

The sadness of these images is cold,
Mere form and rigid meaninglessness.
A mistake to think of them as a mold
Into which we are invited to press
Anxieties we can't otherwise express.
In dreams, there are clouds and sky
Even when all else is unfamiliar clay
Pressed by idiot fingers. Don't ask why.
Rapidity in sleep is all about delay
And loneliness the abstraction of our day.
What is left of us bows to the obelisk,
A monument to endeavor without risk.
Is there nothing, nothing worth being?
Our only hope is if nothing is fleeting.

Perseus and Andromeda (Joachim Wtewael)

#27

No man has ever ridden a flying horse,
No woman chained as bait for a spiteful
God's sea monster's appeasement.
In modern terms, any man, of course,
Can fight in desperation the rightful
Cause of his woman's safe easement
From hunger, destitution or even death,
At the hands of evil or cowardly men.
No painting of such would take our breath
Away, or make us think god a demon.
No, it is the look on Andromeda's face,
Not hopeful or happy or exhilarated
Or in love, that we believe. Alone of her race,
She accepts what must be, what is fated.

The Whiteblood Vine

#26

By this cinder track, a whiteblood vine
Entangles a towering sycamore
In mockery of human error.
The parasite winds the tree’s spine,
Cleaving to rigidity it lacks,
Like a mind, faithful to facts.
From rooted stem, slim tendrils twine
Up and around every limb,
Grip a higher twig and climb—
Twig to limb, then twig, in stair-step line.
The creeper spreads its mesh;
Greenery sags, desiccated flesh.
The vine and sycamore combine
To create what they undermine.

The Tree of Crows (Caspar David Friedrich)

#25

Only one is firmly perched on its branches.
The others appear to have been scared off,
Or are they all arriving for the night?
We can't be sure which leaves or advances.
No murder of, but a chaos -- none paired off
Like swans or cardinals -- scattered in flight,
Lines in the sky like these thinning limbs,
A picture of someone's desperate screams.
The trajectories of crows are mere whims,
The tree will draw in in orderly streams.
Don't you believe it. The explosion of lines,
Both bird and twig, are devoid of symmetry,
Like thought we can speak, but not define.
Is it a tree of crows or a crow of a tree?

The City Worries (Delvaux)

#24

I am beyond caring while others still worry.
Is my hatred less than those whose fear
Is still fresh, untainted by time's fury?
That bastard destroys our city one tear,
One rape, one sigh, one gasp at a time.
How to act? Pursue a lover, or demur?
Plead forbearance? Preach the sublime
And inevitable end? Or pray for a cure.
The latest come with their breasts over bows,
Some devil's notion of the perfect dress.
(I'd be happy with a simple suit of clothes.)
I see their awful confusion and distress,
But the Black Bowlers are now in control.
Even that beauty there will lose her soul.

The Great Wave Off Kanagawa (Hokusai) and Sinbad The Sailor (Klee)

#23

There is nothing to fear in these cartoons.
A wave poised forever and never crashing.
Red ink dripping from a crooked harpoon.
Each a vision unreal, a pictorial fashion.
Then why so much improbable danger,
The depiction of moments of great crisis
In a style so unlike the camera's iris --
To make what we'll never know even stranger?
The artists have painted man against the elements
Or mythological beasts, both mere figments
Of extreme but fake, unnatural commotion,
Riots of color to create a chaos of emotion.
I have killed many such monsters of the deep,
And ridden up and over fatal crests asleep.

Nativity at Night (Geertgen Tot Sint Jans)

#22

The sound of time is the sound of light,
So the morning sun would seem to say;
But now, when it’s either soon or late,
Is silent—dark, when it's any shade of gray.
Infancy (now in its shroud of amnesia)
Saw a thing as it was there to hear
With ecstatic nerves of synaesthesia,
Or like a planet without an atmosphere,
Naked to the bombardment of the stars,
Spun through space. That memory, stored
In our synapses, fights a prolonged war
To glimpse what our mind has barred;
A light the color and the sound of time
We know is not a product of the mind.