Guggenheim and Pollock (edit 3 -River, JohnS, busker)
My dad was Mr. Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
his children endlessly spinning
those museum shop color wheels;
overlapping hues were caught
and released, headwaters
and destinations blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
Wright’s New York ramps and open air
left us unprepared for Peggy’s Venice.
My sister and I share a focaccia breakfast
in the sunlit sculpture garden, the prelude
to a well-loved home packed with a life
of choice, astute collections at every turn.
Then ahead of us a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
Flooded by Pollock I swim,
from piece to piece a crest and dive,
at the end a life fully felt.
Guggenheim and Pollock (edit 2 -River, JohnS)
My dad was Mr. Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
with a family pass to the city’s
network of art museums,
his children endlessly spinning
those gift shop color wheels.
Layers of primaries overlapped
as changing hues were caught
and released, headwaters
and destinations blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
Grown enough to travel,
my sister and I share a sunlit
focaccia breakfast and the breeze
in Peggy’s garden, a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Wright’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s sharp focus.
Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls,
allowing them to imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
Immersed in Pollock, my mind swims
as layers of emotion surface,
from piece to piece a crest and dive,
at the end a life fully felt.
Guggenheim and Pollock edit 1
Born into Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
weekend family pass to the city’s
Museum of Modern Art.
Giftshop colorwheels spinners
swirled layers of primaries shifted
endlessly, caught and released,
headwaters and destinations
blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
A sunlit focaccia breakfast
in Peggy’s breezy sculpture garden
is a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Guggenheim’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s focus.
Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls
allowing them to imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming
as everything I’ve ever felt surfaces,
a crest and dive from piece to piece,
at the end a life exhausted.
Peggy and Jackson in Venice (from NaPM)
My dad was Mr. Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls
with a family pass to New York's
Museum of Modern Art.
I grew up endlessly spinning
those gift shop color wheels,
accustomed to flying shapes
in the air, puzzling them together
then rearranging.
But I never got Pollock.
Just. Couldn't. Get it.
Then I visited Peggy, what she left.
Eating morning focaccia
in her sculpture garden in
preparation for her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Still holding the remnants of a life of choice, clearly a home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the covered walls
but all works new to me,
making sure to let them imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming in emotions, all of them, changing
from piece to piece, building,
piling on until by the end
I've lived it all.
