Poet Ray Greenblatt, Giotto, and Joseph Cornell

Maryland poet Ray Greenblatt's most recent collection is Leavings of the Evening (2010, Foothills Press). His ekphrastic poems are inspired by his work as a docent at Philadelphia's Rosenbach Rare Book Museum and Library, which houses 18th- and 19th-century art as well as literature, and by his membership in the Brandywine River Museum, which houses the Wyeth collections. Greenblatt organized two ekphrastic readings this year at the Wayne Art Center.

Giotto's "The Kiss"

GIOTTO'S FRESCOES IN PADUA

Does it matter in an early auto in the 20s
          over nearly impossible dirt tracks
          Aldous Huxley traveled days to honor them,
          since his friend D.H. Lawrence
          had raved about the Chapel's celestial beauty?

Not too many years ago
          my friend Glenn flew from New York to view them,
          humble art student
          cadging money from his single working mom
          to see what in art folios were fantastic.
Scrovegni Chapel, Padua, Italy
Scrovegni had the Chapel built
          a rascal playing at nobility
          lavish with love and art,
          then lost all his money
          the structure nearly razed.

We pass by students
          eating gelato under medieval arches 
          shadows of those buildings having
          etched the earth for centuries,
          students mostly talking about
          sex, food, where to find a job,
          Giotto included humans like them
          also in his universe.

Not just the varied brushwork
          the myriad characters
          the years of striving,
          the deepest blue ceiling
          represents eternal night
          seen through heavenly eyes,
          Giotto worked
          for money to survive
          as well as his faith.

Does it matter that afterwards
          in an outdoor trattoria
          the local wine today tastes exquisite
          the pasta like manna-
          yes, I think it does.

Cornell's "The Cockatoo"
JOSEPH CORNELL'S BOXES

Had he gone too far?
He saw the clouds of cobwebs
drooping from rafters,
the cord and bulb swung
in the breeze from an unknown source
or was it his fear,
he scratched his gritty jaw,
he now could smell the damp
of the cellar no more than shadows.
He stared down at the unfinished wooden box,
the row of individual teeth
the little heap of hair
the eyeball in his palm
peering up at him.
No, aloneness did not have to be
insanity, he spoke outloud
to hear each word weighed and measured.
Back to the glossy cut-outs
the worthless 5 & 10 beads 
the innocent plastic toys.
Crush that crate
bury it in the cellar
find the door and breathe deeply
in the night just in time.

painters and poets
ekphrastic