Saturday, January 17, 2009

Andrew Wyeth


chistina's world
for Andrew Wyeth

brown hills of grass
where she slept

until the light
slides under
the surface of things,

she rises
hungry
as a fish
patrolling a lake's still surface,

there is someplace to be,

in a chair
at a table
with a place setting
of one plate, one fork,

one empty glass.

2 comments:

  1. a beautiful tribute.

    i liked wyeth's work. i liked his grasses and the way he painted fabric...he made everything so touchable.

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  2. Thanks, cat. The severe modernists have a problem because there wasn't a jagged line in his painted world--not enough gloom, despair, mankind facing an eternal silence after death. Wyeth liked things in their solitude; he imagined them when no one was looking. Ideal, perhaps, but his was a supreme fiction equal to Wallace Stevens words-for-objects.

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