that still life painting
in the hallway irks me a little
with its confidence, its sense
of fulfillment, its dubious claim
that things can outrun the madness
and simply come to rest
on the wall next to the thermostat
the attic folding-stairs pull cord
dangles before it, a record of
movements court-martialed to a halt
illumination caught in the act
all brushed to a standstill, aloof
colors like subway strangers, everything
composed with a brushy carelessness
fronting a thumb-bumbled whimsy
of basket spills, lemons, tangerines
rolling all over the place, though somehow
settling to, actors in their places
staged in a frame, of the golden ratio
like a postcard from your cultured aunt
who’s accidents, even, seem a little elegant
The first six lines are lifted (and modified) from my piece ‘it’s still here’.
I like your subway palette of words.
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Thank you.
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Could there be a slow leak in our art balloon? Sublime.
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I do love still lifes. This one is an amalgam of many, a daydream of a still life.
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Well your amalgam is a artful little masterpiece. Out of curiosity – any particular still life painters capture you the most?
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Cézanne, for sure.
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“staged in a frame, of the golden ratio
like a postcard from your cultured aunt
who’s accidents, even, seem a little elegant” the strength and beauty of these lines alone make me uneasy with joy. I want to laugh and stay sombre too. I wish I could write like this.
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Finally my genius is recognized! #kidding Thanks for kind remarks.
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