Born David George Vogenitz. Poet, artist, freelance photographer. David George's work appeared in over one hundred literary magazines and anthologies in North America and Europe, including The Anthology of Magazine Verse and The Yearbook of American Poetry. Did seminal work on the Andalusian Gypsy as an anthropologist and wrote THE FLAMENCO GUITAR in 1969. That book traced the making of the guitar from tree to instrument with anecdotes of asuntos gitanos in the substantial endnotes. Photo gallery: http://www.stevekahn.com/flamenco/fp_collection_1.html
American Gothic Beauty Burly Cobb's Barn Dignitaries Georgia O'Keeffe.... In One Of Goya's Paintings Landscape With.... On Fields Of Grey Regret Rippled Surface The Balcony The Girlie Show The Lassitude Of Ulysses
––an oil on beaverboard by Grant Wood, 1930
The
tines are attentive to silence and slow time––
The
sticking point of action deferred, the glum
Expressions
on their faces, as they stand
Side
by side, emphasizing the tines
That
symbolize what a farmer is about.
They
scoop up hay, or cattle-feed, or the dirt
Accumulating
in the steaming stalls,
The
dark corrals of flesh and bone and blood.
In
one fell swoop, the tines will play their part
Scooping
up and stacking. They bite through bales
With
the horrendous appetite for work
The
farmer has, the Gothic worker, that
Never
stops working, never stops to smile
Until
the tall and sacred silo is full.
2
The
lightning-ball on the roof is not a cross.
This
is not a church, in spite of the sharp
Window
peaking, the arching, triangular
Window
in the second-story loft. Each face
Repeats
the archness, the arching brows, the eyes
Not
even glasses can temper or disguise.
This
man is a priest in the Gothic sense.
He
sees the world intently, through his own
Interpretation
of what is right and wrong.
Righteous
he stands. Righteous he falls. Each man
Assumes
the duties and status of a priest.
The
woman, however (the perfect cameo)
Tends
to her flowers on the porch. She fills
The
kitchen with the honest smell of bread.
3
But
it’s the tines, the trident in the hand,
The
poignant, dangerous trinity of tines
The
painter chose to emphasize, when he put
A
pitchfork in the fist of a man like this––
A
hand like
this––a work-hardened, capable,
Clamping-down
kind of hand––a farmer’s fist.
He’s
all of this beneath the priestly stance:
The
black jacket, the holy pose, the collar
Buttoned
and starched. He is a man to fear,
A
heavy-handed man who has his way.
Perhaps
there is another way, but he
Has
never heard of it. Perhaps he did,
But
only later––long after he was dead––
And then it didn’t matter what he said.
Beauty
Sometimes unexpectedly, unbidden,
Beauty comes. Not a downpouring of doves,
Not a Venus, sheathed in an ivory shell,
Not even the lenses of Stonehenge in its season––
Stones aligned to catch the sun as it moves
Mystically, majestically, through holes
And crevices. Not even these spectaculars––
The light against the dark, the white ecstatic,
Stars falling and setting the sky on fire––
Take possession, or let the moment take
The horse high over the hedge with an unseen rider.
It comes when least expected, when the dark
Opens a crack to let light filter in––
A word, a look, a sudden realization.
––an
oil on canvas by Edward Hopper, 1931
It’s
too remote to record without a deed
Bringing
it up to date. How many barns
Gave
up their boards for fireplace mantels?
How
many hardwood floors became the walls
Of
tiny, rustic estates? They’re scattered about
Hither
and yon, like a Christian martyr’s bones––
Bits
and pieces, that multiply in the shops
Of
ikon-makers and antique-dealers, the men
Who
covet them. But what a relic needs
Is
restoration and peace, not sacrifice––
Not
unlike the old man who prepares
By
buying a casket big enough to breathe in––
At
least until the tearing-apart is over,
The screech of nails, the sobbing of relatives.
Attuned
to the hush of God’s revolving door
(The
well-oiled hinges, the whisper of the wings
That
glide behind, come out ahead of you)
The
Men-That-Matter are aware of things
That
lesser men never knew existed.
That’s
why they’re lesser men. It all begins
Out
in the street. The doormen smartly salute
Disembarking
dignitaries, their cars
More
elegant than others, more discreet
Than
those that cart the other men to work.
They
have, in fact, that black and well-worn look
Reserved
for state occasions. After all,
The
classical is never old. It gleams
Behind
the tinted glass of myth and dream.
2
The
ministers-of-state (for they are that)
Seem
to float from door to elevator.
Italian-leather
slippers (supple shoes)
Encase
the toes you know are manicured.
They
lightly navigate the marble halls,
And
take their ease in gold-embroidered chairs.
Only
the finest wool, the finest sheep
Contribute
to the tailored suits they wear.
Men
of the cloth, what gods elected them?
Are
they ecclesiastical in fact?
Are
they an ancient, biblical elite?
And
if there is a heaven, will they greet
One
another by name, and take their seats
To play the same hereditary game?
Georgia O'Keeffe And The Buffalo Skull
––a
photograph taken in 1948 outside of her house at
Abiquiui,
Seated
on rough planking, wearing a hat,
The
round black sombrero
of the vaquero,
its loop
Dangling
down and loosely-knotted, she sits
Holding
the ancient skull of a bull in her lap.
How
many times has she painted that skull, her hand
Cupping
the upper jaw, her fingers laid
Along
the row of massive teeth worn down
By
years of grazing on buffalo-grass and sage?
Its
horns are still matted, the mossy bark of an oak
That
clings to the branch long after the rest of it
Has
blown away across the desert terrain.
Taking
her place with dignity among
The
petroglyphs of buffalo-hoof on stone,
She
too is old and weathered at sixty-one.
2
But
what is sixty-one to such a woman
Still
working, at ninety-six, in the sun
That
blanches whatever it touches? Did she take
The
force of the sun in her fingers, leather now,
And
let its yellow tongue slide down her skin?
For
thirty-five years, she was never far from the skull
Photographed
here with the artist, her cupped hand
Clutching
the skull of her friend, her constant companion,
Its
head alone as large as her torso, its eye
Dead
and empty, old and wise as the soul
Hidden,
perhaps, in its bone-marrow. She sits
Solemn
and old and wise, as if she knows
The
thoughts behind the bone, behind the eye
Empty
and hollow but still alive in her hand.
3
Georgia
thinks like a Zuni. The Zuni believe
The
sun is a hole in the sky. The artist knows
The
Zuni have lived forever in the sun
She
has endured but slightly, began to crave
When
living away too long from its healing rays.
The
sun has baked her too––the clay in her veins,
The
ox blood and urine of her adobe home,
The
idle thoughts of the skull she holds in her hand,
Its
eye still gaping, staring back at the sun.
Her
needs are simple: the sky above her, the sod
Tiling
her roof, the cantilevered logs
Keeping
the rain out of her cave, the sun
That
gives her heat and light, the refried beans
Simmering rich and brown in a black pot.
––based
on a Goya painting of a dog (1820) and
In
one of Goya’s paintings, a little dog
Rises
out of the mudbanks of Madrid.
Its
melancholy mouth, its mournful eyes
Express
in paint the howling sentiment
Turner’s
dog is trying to express
All
by itself on an empty strand, the sea
Lapping
at the shores of its loneliness.
Nobody
seems to know what Goya’s dog
Symbolizes––as
if it mattered to him,
Padding
about nearly deaf with his black paintings
Constantly
on his mind. Did Turner’s dog
Bay
at the moon until the moon was lost
Behind
a cloud? Or did it bay and bay
All
night, all day, for what was missing at sea?
How
strange it was: only a dog, and yet
Nothing
is more appropriate than a dog
To
keep the faith, to bay at the moon, until
The
painter pays attention to its plight.
In
one bold stroke, the painter eliminates
Empty
gesture––the figures on the shore
That
didn’t believe in what they couldn’t see.
Only
the dog stayed awake for days, and searched
For
distant lights, for the sight of a battered boat
Drifting
out of the black and into the blue
Of
early dawn. Only the dog remained
When
everyone else had given up the search––
The
sea turning green, then blue, then green and then
Only the wind was howling, only the sea.
––an
oil on canvas by Pieter Brueghel, 1558
Whether
or not it was Brueghel who painted the flight––
The
Fall from Grace, the harsh, ambivalent cry
Of
one forsaken at the height of his life,
The
fact remains that Icarus, all alone,
Learned
what it was to be a falling stone.
A
watcher said he “plummeted”––one who was there
Looking
for nothing, apparently, when he saw
Something
new, a naked man, a god
Folding
its wings like a waterbird, to dive
Into
a watery grave. What marks the spot?
What
monument to science or to art
Commemorates
the passage of a man
From
earth to sky, from sky to earth again––
Who
sacrificed, who paid the ultimate price?
2
Nobody
ever accused him of moderation.
The
sun, that day, was gilding the sky with gold––
A
setting sun, reflected upon the wings
Suddenly
limp––as if his stiff resolve
Melted
down at the instant of ignition.
This
is the way, his father said, the
sky
Keeps
its distance, is never overrun
By
premonitions, by fleets of alien things.
Don’t
fly too high, his mother said,
before
He
spread his wings and leaped into the wind
Without
a backward glance. He must have guessed
That
there was more, much more to it than the leap
He
blithely made into what appeared to be
Nothing but air in a vast arena of stars.
––based
on an anonymous Civil War photo
On
fields of grey regret, the bodies fall––
Good
men all, and younger than the grass
That
paints them green and black. How high must bone
Pile
upon bone before the taste of brass
Legislates
an end to the blood-letting?
The
stones are red, the sky is red, the dawn.
A
dead sun glints on rusty bayonets,
On
bones the color of marble and broken slate.
On
fields of grey regret, the bodies fall
In
stony rows for no good reason at all––
And
they are falling yet. How deep? How tall?
How
long must the wind rustle a dead man’s hair?
My
fingers itch to scratch an ancient sore.
How smooth the faces of those who go to war!
Two
raindrops, falling into a pond,
Become
the pond that they are falling on––
Become
the moon, the tree, the tangled limbs
Intertwined
with broken rings, and the rain
That
left two drops behind. How soon will they
Assimilate
with what they have become––
Give
up their rings, the ripples that the wind
Will
smooth with its white hand? Already, they
Are
slowing down their microscopic sense
Of
oceanic pride. Their ripples are
Running
out of steam, the inner surge,
The
energetic sense of what they were
Before
they fell upon a tranquil pond
That
once was still, will soon be still again.
––a
memoir of yellow roses in Seville,
The
tall and ornate door on the second floor
Opened
out on courtyards of light and sun.
Huge
yellow roses climbed the balcony
From
brick planters, ascending wrought-iron bars
Up
to the washlines threading the flat roof.
The
Gypsy maid, who could out-sing finches, complained
Yellow
roses were inundating the space
Up
to now she felt safe in. Couldn’t he
(Her
enemy, the gardener) get a grip
On all those messy petals, perilous thorns?
She
didn’t sing for a week until he did,
Her
sighs and groans floating darkly through the door
Always
ajar, because of the slender breeze
That
stirred the curtains, alleviated the heat.
2
An
early Matisse was hanging motionless
At
one end of the spacious room, with light
Pushing
its way through the hordes of yellow roses
That
seemed to pause, drop a few petals, and pass
Upwards
and onwards on their way to the roof.
The
light from the balcony dappled the Matisse
Already
scarred––according to la condesa––
By
careless brushstrokes by the maestro himself.
Take
it, she said. The
face is all wrong.
I’m
doing abstracts now, by which she meant
She
was collecting Braque and Picasso.
The
early Matisse, like his Woman with the Hat,
Was
still considered scandalous, when she
Divested
herself of all her early mistakes.
3
The
roses filled the studio, the door
Always
ajar, the roses spilling in
Until
the floor was yellow with roses, that slid
Gently
across the tile. All night they rustled,
Their
petals drifting across the polished floor.
The
Gypsy maid was horrified when she saw
The
balcony clogged with roses, even the floor
Littered
with petals that had a life of their own.
The
early Matisse was motionless. His face
Didn’t
react to the roses. Perhaps he knew
It
wasn’t easy to choose between life and art––
The
open door, the roses blocking out light,
The
hordes of yellow roses posing as art––
Bold intruders that had a life of their own.
––an
oil on canvas by Edward Hopper, 1941
More
like an ikon of Byzantine intent,
The
stiff, hieratic attitude reflects
Nefrititi
in the nude, her hair
Reddened
with henna, her cheeks with actor's rouge.
Is
that lipstick on her nipples? Her breasts
Forge
ahead like the prows of battleships
Not
exactly dancing over the waves,
Probing
the night air like ballistic missiles.
A
prehistoric bird of prey, she strides
Across
a naked stage in a pool of light
That
follows every jerky movement she makes.
The
drummer in the pit beneath her feet
Has
turned away, as if he knows by rote
Each
step she takes, each bump and grind, each turn.
2.
The latest hits
He
doesn't have to look at her, to keep
The
driving beat, the tattoo of a stick
Upon
obliging skin. He sets the pace,
The
rate at which she moves, as if his hands
Were
on the quick, invisible strings attached
To
head and toe, to each mechanical limb––
Even
the message centers in her brain.
The
drummer is the man that makes her move
Across
the stage, no matter what her mood.
The
drummer is the man she learns to love
Above
all others, the only man she obeys.
How
effortless––the way the drummer plays
The
latest hits with slender, stuttering sticks––
And
she responds with twitches, grunts and groans.
3.
A star upon a stage
Didn't
another, a famous dancer, respond
To
flute and drum upon a distant stage?
What
was it about her, that set her apart from this
Burlesque
dancer, whose strident movements seem
Contra
naturum––:
the harsh, discordant drum
Inviting
her to step into a light
That
leaves her nothing to herself, that steals
The
last small shred of what she was about
Before
a drummer turned her out, before
She
became a star upon a stage?
Now
she starts and stops upon command––
A
puppet on a string that tugs at her
Incessantly,
as if she were nothing but
A
ticket-taker, a temple prostitute.
4.
Strutting her stuff
Why
did this careful painter endow her with
Such
a set of boobs? He must have seen
The
bulbous shape of rubber bicycle horns
That
squawk when squeezed. Did his enormous hands
Yearn
to make a barnyard sound? And why
Did
Jo––his wife of many years––remark
How
closely did the dancer's legs resemble
Her
very own (although she was the model)––;
As
if a part of Hopper's wife were up there
Strutting
her stuff, letting it all hang out.
She
must have noticed that her husband centered
The
dancer's navel at a point half-way
North
and south, and nearly coinciding
East
and west in the center of the stage.
5.
Once Rubenesque
She
doesn't slink. She whips her body out
In
sullen arcs that dart about as she moves.
Her
stance, however, does not disguise the wings
Lurking
under her skin, that flow behind
Like
some repellant, reptilian thing.
But
far beyond the dancer and the drummer,
The
hoots and jeers, the ripples of applause,
Another
sound––the flute and drum––invade
These
nightly invocations to the gods
Of
here and now, the fleshy gods of burlesque
That
turn their backs on her, as the drummer did
When
she became––even for him––too profane;
When
her flesh, once Rubenesque, became
The flayed carcass of Rembrandt's famous ox.
How
dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To
rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
––Tennyson, “Ulysses”
The
lassitude of Ulysses––fair hand at making
The
sea caress him, the crew come to his call,
Lashed
out at his wife’s suitors: he slew them all.
And
what did Homer have him do then? Not a thing.
It
ends in a wine-cup: the flesh of a stuffed-ox and
song––
Barbaric
howling, the walls of a great hall hung
Red
and dripping, the heads of a kingdom impaled,
The
wine-god jesting with his harsh underling:
Cup
by cup contesting, keeping his courage up
Against
the day the sea drained out of his sails.
Penelope
knew. She tucked in the threads of her grief,
Spindled
in homespun a sheath for the terrible knife
Slicing,
slicing, the man and the wife in half––
Until
he fit the garment she had woven.
Samuel Greenberg (1893-1917)
Dead of tuberculosis at 23, this forgotten New York poet & sonneteer, who lived his life in poverty, is vaguely recalled for his influence on Hart Crane. Very hit & miss, his structural strengths outweigh his thoughts; but this immature poet had Owenian potential.
Conduct Literature Ruins Science
By a peninsula, the painter sat and
Sketched the uneven valley groves
The apostle gave alms to the
Meek, the volcano burst
In fusive sulfur and hurled
Rocks and ore into the air
Heaven's sudden change at
The drawing tempestuous
Darkening shade of Dense clouded Hues
The wanderer soon chose
His spot of rest, they bore the
Chosen hero upon their shoulders
Whom they strangely admired - as,
The Beach tide Summer of people desired.
Literature
And now! What hath the Orient’s page?
Whose script - can weigh ink of ancient noble volumes
We call curious - to bare, our interest with us
Who will not gather tales, that fly as feather Plants
Which wind doth carry into blossom here?
The grey bearded philosopher and his faded books
That counsels, rare consolation, like an Old Painting looks
A common wealth of joy - no matter!
Which scrawl, thou dost inherit
Be it - Persian - Hindu - African - Malay
Hath shaded many a minds, bound love!
Certified beauty - and lent thy placid spirit
To those, whose passion wont, nor gained
Liberty’s fetters, Ah ‘tis still constant, everywhere - and to chide its merit!
Shock of Ruined Towers describe as follows
Flood of Johnston was the pity and wreck
Of labored destroyed cottages and Barns
afloat sadly damaged see --
From San Francisco - to Rome - we know
and Heard of the disasters, The sieving
Volcanoes - that cover completely in ashes
Pompei - and small villages, Being, The Death
of many - we picture the smashed and lost
Homes - and torn and cracked. - stone Buildings
Churches - the disabled Park statues and
Museums of Arts spoiled and useless.
Science! The smithy of the sea!
That bent an eels perfect glide
That shaded fennels yarrow wide
Swallowed pearls that marbled the checkered Dee!
Who poured the phantom, in love’s comely phase
And chased huge heavens within ash of thought
thus saved the human helpless outlook tide
The ships course, its fate will decide
Whether its safety - that of power hold!
In dreams of marines, legend base
That I in all wonderment doth hide
But ere thy unfolded - systemed way
Of long - long ago - hath begun and lured
Nature to thy heart - in patient wounded spirits clay.
Hazel Hall (1886-1924)
Brief fame in the 1920s would not last for this invalid poet. Note the density of music & rime, & how she undermines many of the lines which would fall to cliché in a lesser poet. She combines the best of Emily Dickinson & Edna St. Vincent Millay, yet with little of their downsides.