For N.R.
Last Saturday, requested by Nicol—
A girl (woman really) who shares my gym—
I went to see her photographic soul
Displayed. A seated group, expressions grim,
Spoke in that modest gallery, took turns
Expressing doubt about the role of art
In history. My tight viscera churned
At the denigration—art? Aesthetes’ farts
Designed to pretty up our morbid world—
Color, sound, a pleasant phrase? Mere perfume
To scent and decorate the dizzy whirl—
Impotent to thwart our impending doom.
I thought about Francisco Goya’s grim
“The Third of May”—Picasso’s “Guernica”—
Edvard Munch’s “Scream,” the patriotic hymns
That lead to battle—clever artists’ tricks.
Art, in all its forms, does count—it touches
Our naive nature—creates the visions
That reveal, that free us from the clutches
Of our skinbound flesh, promotes decisions.
I looked at Nicol’s work—lady in white
Holding a fearful black raptor raven—
That bleak man, holding his dying dog, tight—
Serenity and threat—no safe haven.
Screw the senseless cant, glib urbanity—
Art, simply put, provokes humanity.
(3/14/13)