Nighthawks #23
I am the gray man
whose face does not exist--
my hat and suit speak for me--
business brings me here.
Hopper is a bastard
for leaving me so alone.
I am the orange woman.
If you move in closer
you can almost see the softness,
touch the tenderness of my breasts;
I lean in close to him,
I’ve perfumed neck and ears,
but yet we do not touch.
I am the man with the face
lit up by Hopper’s light
yet I do not see how the space
between us can ever be bridged
my hat is oh too heavy, my vision
obscured by the brim,
I think I smell
her perfume, but cannot touch her arm.
I am the man in white,
pouring out the coffee
cleaning all their ashtrays.
I check my watch until
my smile becomes a grimace—
wondering when they’ll leave.
I have a wife and children
a warm bed I want to visit
if Hopper had not marooned me
in this damn cold lit place.
Anonymous likes to go to the museum and look at the paintings. Sometimes (omitted) finds (omitted) looking at a painting for so long that the guards have to tell (omitted) to move it along.
Brilliant, poignant, personal, almost painful, a haunting poem like howling wind ... if we would in the country be.
ReplyDeleteBut for some Hopper's famous image reminds them of a generation and family passed, an image remembered with fondness, and thus not so cathartically aching. Though, it must be said, I did experience what the poet word painted. This is good. Rara avis. Just so ...
Like all effective and genuine artists, the poet here brings us to see, feel, know a different reality we may sense is there, but have not access save for the vision of the artist sharing their work.
The only thing lacking is a book of the poet's imagery in words, a whole book of poems.
Oh, there is a power here not found too commonly in other, lesser poets.
Plus, if I may say, an honesty. An integrity of presentation from obviously knowing of what the poet speaks, from life, even a braveness. After all, is not the heartfelt act baring one's soul in art a noble and courageous expression, an honoured part of the highest ideals of art, as in fine ...art?
Where is my book?, poet.