Five
Poems
by Cathryn Hankla |
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There's a Hole in the Man's Chest, but the Man Is Living inspired by Robert Gober's "Slides of a Changing Painting" Branches transform to a man's shoulders, the space between becomes his trunk. How much that we know of men is really about trees? Their chests grow bark. The knot holes of their emotions sometimes rot or hold disease. Heartwood can hollow from within, and roots seek water in a dry pile of rocks. Mushrooms steal away the rain meant to nurture leaves. Silent fungus, invisible, ubiquitous, a subterranean web growing larger than a man or a forest. Sometimes the Man turns into a Woman Sometimes lines beneath the nipples deepen, the thatch of hair disappears, and I think I see breasts. But the 3-D hole remains. The injury could be self-inflicted. It could bloom flowers, but it never does. When I try to look through it, the hole descends, tripling in depth, just when I think I spy its end. Abstraction from a Life in the Body Any body can turn into a painted landscape or a page in a book. Flat planes are always ready to erase our dimensions, as when we write half a truth and call it fiction. The amount unknown, the vast interior, molten core and a million facts- the man is lying on his back in a hospital bed. Hourly, the X-ray machine hovers over his chest. Soon the sheet will cover his head. For now, he is breathing. For now, I call him "father." In a few days his hand Will draw away, his eyes will dull on a point I cannot follow. Immanent Creation Standing over the graves of Van Gogh and his brother, I felt a vague stirring, as of a journey commencing from Auvers-Sur-Oise. I then walked the surround of yellow fields brushstrokes have illumined. Art takes a life- time, gathers from the living, yet returns far more than reflection. There may be no other way than this to live, risking nothingness. In the background, in the corner of a rustic bedroom draped in blue, inside a sound, within a color transformed by lucidity and the sheen of varnish, what is it that you can see? When Leaving no Re-entry Permitted Un billet, a ticket, marked no return. Here wander, inhaling scents of lush pink blooms. Drooping and dripping from quick snips, invisible trusses. It is almost too much, this plot snug as a suburban yard, a verdurous palette. Wander trodden paths, heady with deep cultivation. The pace sweeps along to the ponds. Don't glance back to the charming abode. Each leather chair bears the impression of a wide, famous behind, the impression that this painter has just stepped out for an extra loaf or a plein air sketch. Alas, without proper credentials, Claude Monet cannot rejoin us: toute sortie du Musée est definitive. |
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