Friday, June 28, 2013

Sarah Brown Weitzman on O'Keeffe, Tanguy, and Homer

More ekphrastic poems from the Delray Beach, FL, poet Sarah Brown Weitzman, a Pushcart nominee in 2012. She has published in Art Times, Rattle, The North American Review, American Writing, Potomac Review, The Bellingham Review, The Mid-American Review, and other journals and anthologies. Her 2004 chapbook, The Forbidden and Other Poems, was published by Pudding House. A full-length volume of her poems, Never Far From Flesh, came out in 2005. Sarah’s children's novel, Herman and the Ice Witch, was published in 2011 by Main Street Rag.

Yves Tanquy, 1954

A graveyard, as though the sea drained away
exposing this surreal ruin, a jumble
of saucers, coils, pots, spheres, whirligigs
discs, eye balls and toppled columns.

After my father died, my mother fell
into the chaos of living with the debris
of unwashed dishes, piles of molding clothes
and trash, dog feces in every room

shredded curtains, overturned furniture
both refrigerator and stove out of order
for years. She kept everything hidden
from me except her need for money.

Above Tanguy’s infinity of loss storm clouds
stain the sky with sadness. In the open grave
of my mind the rubble of memories
of my mother and the awful stink of omissions.


Winslow Homer, 1894

Moonlight drops through a gap
in the immense wall of night
its amber sheen a wavering path
over the water from the rim
of the horizon to the rocky shore
in the foreground and brightens fully
the left half of this painting.

A few white specks and a red dot
of beacon on a narrow black bar
of island in the dark distance
far to the right completes
this study Winslow Homer entitled
“Moonlight, Wood Island Light,”
though he painted the contrast.


“There’s nothing out there but light.”
                                     Charles Wright
Georgia O'Keeffe
My Front Yard, Summer, 1941

Here light wavers like heat rising
in radiant waves of turquoise over

rows of adobe houses and a rainbow
of bare hills in the copper haze of distance.
Sun scalds and polishes everything
to this luster of colors, O the colors, shiny

as silver bracelets in the market.  Midday,
an immaculate moment without mystery

or spills of shadows as the heat repeats itself
over the bleached doorsills.  Noon bakes

and sizzles, while stunned by the dazzle,
the opaque blue overhead aches for clouds.

painters and poets ekphrastic poems 

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