New York City poet Steve Turtell’s collection Heroes and Householders was published in
2009 by Orchard House Press and reissued in May 2012 in an expanded second
edition. His 2001 chapbook Letter to Frank O’Hara was the 2010
winner of the Rebound Chapbook Prize awarded by Seven Kitchens Press. It was
reissued with an introduction by Joan Larkin in 2011. He is currently at work
on a memoir, Fifty Jobs in Fifty Years, and Peter Hujar:
Invisible Master, a study of the life, work and influence of the
photographer. You can follow him on Twitter as @rdturtle, friend him
on facebook.com,
and read more at http://steveturtell.com.
It had been raining for ten years—
just after our vows too, when the life
of the party shouted “Drop dead.”
What aplomb! All those faithless Springs
suddenly worthless. Years of abandonment
counting for nothing. Oh horrors of
enchantment, beauty of truculence.
You can always depend upon the hostility of
lovers
But we, a glamorous, shuddering chorus,
eyes averted, move en pointe past
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Double Portrait of Frank O'Hara, Larry Rivers, 1954/1955 oil on canvas |
that peep-show of self-pity. Really, Mary!
As if our holy yawns don’t prove
we’re simply riddled with purity
and will float softly, silently
as the dreams of the inconsolable rhinoceri,
pitiable as the tears of lost seagulls,
sure as Adam’s apple pie, straight to heaven.
The angels’ impatience says we’ve
all prayed for too little and they
can’t wait to scold us. God’s redecorating.
He wants all his darlings back.
Oh Frank. Have you missed us terribly,
whom you never met? I picture your daily
grand jeté over the sun,
knowing the moon
never tires of loving you. I long to change
costumes and visit. Let’s see. Blandishments,
pitchforks, foreskins. Well! But then Edward
told me you had the longest he’d ever seen.
My mother loved me so I got to keep mine,
ensuring that there I would always be a goy.
Just knowing that I’ve kissed lips that once
kissed yours—but enough. Discretion is
the better part of careerism. Now there
is only one poet I love to read while dreaming.
is only one poet I love to read while dreaming.
The Substance of Joy
Johannes Vermeer at the National Gallery
A cautious friendliness prevails.
Strangers smile sweetly,
apologize when passing.
We all gawk at
“The Girl with the Wineglass.”
A few risk comments.
Her smile, tulip red dress, the blue-gold
“harlequin” tiled floor—get more
and less informed notice.
I look at the cordial glass
—precarious between
finger and thumb, and her grin,
not yet slack. A dandified,
self-styled connoisseur
sweeps by. Dark fedora,
mauve brocaded-satin scarf,
camel-hair coat, cordovan wingtips
—all gorgeous, elegant. His hauteur
alone worth the effort of some
painter or other—Whistler
in a very bad mood?
The comments die down
around him. Why embarrass
ourselves when all we want
is pleasure, and pictures of it?
After he's gone I say to my neighbor,
“She looks drunk.” He considers,
shrugs before backing out.
![]() |
A Lady Writing a Letter
c. 1665-1666, Oil on canvasattributed to Vermeer |
The three-deep crowd surges
ever so politely forward.
It’s difficult to get close
to the paintings; but not
as difficult as painting them
with such unwieldy tools:
soft mounds of oily pigment
spread in blending rivulets;
the oddly shaped knife;
tiny thatches of sable
carefully bound to thin sticks;
the camera obscura Vermeer
peered through at lovely women,
at the ample room with a few props
—the wall map weighted
with iron-blue dowel,
a table, a leaded window
filled with the famous light
he lured onto his canvas.
Centuries later, we too love
what he so clearly saw:
thin red gleams on parted lips,
a liquid, white slice of teeth,
thick rugs bunched like
pantaloons on the waxed table,
the shimmering folds of lemon-
souffle gowns, caressed by
the same sun that shone on you,
now shining on us, on the intricate
smears encrusting the linen
canvas, all that remains of
the substance of your joy.