"At the Beach" by Edward Henry Potthast

Daughters of the Revolution

"The Dance of Life" by Edvard Munch

Midnight on the Norwegian isle 

A full moon glitters on the lake 

While villagers cavort along the shoreline

Spinning, twirling to the mesmerizing music

A gray-haired man lustfully dips his partner 

While a man in black and his partner in red slowly sway

Hand in hand, arms stretched downward

The man’s face, yellow in pallor, the mask of death

The woman, dark circles engulfing her eyes

Sad, absorbed, resigned

The last dance the doomed couple will know

A woman in white stands to one side 

Smiling, fresh and innocent, virginal 

To the right, an older woman, adorned in black 

Hunched over, face glum, hands clasped

Gazing at the couple, contemplating their demise

The dance of life persists but moments more 

Until the dancers sink down to the netherworld 

Whaam! by Roy Lichtenstein: An Ekphrastic Poem

Skipper and I were four when they bombed Pearl Harbor 

Our childhoods unfolded in the midst of the war 

In the back yard we fought in French trenches 

Battled the Nazis, attacked the Japanese 

Stormed the mock beaches as invading Marines

But nothing was more exciting than the Air Force

B-29s delivering their pay loads

Fighters taking off from aircraft carriers

And here, a P-51 Mustang destroying a Nazi fighter

It’s hard to imagine such courage

High in the sky, mortal clashes with enemy pilots

Google supplied these sobering facts

Twenty-three thousand American aircraft

Were lost in combat in World War II

Seventy-five thousand airmen died 

We owe these heroes eternal gratitude 

Family Portrait

This is my entire family

including myself 

Our best family picture ever

That’s me on the floor with 

Ruthie and my new rifle 

Ruthie turned twelve this week

She is holding Brutus

but just for this picture

Brutus is my dog mostly

He loves me more than anyone 

My parents say Ruthie is boy crazy

and they won’t let her 

go to the mall with her friends

which makes her cry and pout

My big sister is Dorene

Dorene hates boys

She is seventeen

and nobody asked her to the senior prom

Not even that dorky Sheldon Breckburn

That makes Dorene so angry 

My dad is like the general in our family

He is sitting in the middle

We are his army

He gives us orders every day

and we all obey

(or else)

My mother is very beautiful

She’s not smiling in this photo

because she asked my dad for money

to buy a new dress  

and he said she has to wait 

for a couple of months   

Right after our neighbor Ed took this picture

we grilled catfish on the front porch

It was the best Fourth of July yet

"The Weeping Woman": A Portrait of Dora Maar (Picasso, 1937)

Believe it or not, this is how I look to Pablo

It leaves me perturbed

His friends think it’s a masterpiece

but, to me, it’s pathetic

Is this who I am? 

When Pablo paints Marie-Therese

she is sunny and cheerful

But with me, they call me the weeping woman

I am the first to admit that I weep

There are many truths to weep about

Pablo abandons me for weeks at a time

to live with Marie-Therese

She is the mother of his daughter

while I cannot have a child

He claims he loves us equally 

When we insisted that he choose

he said we should fight it out ourselves

I pulled her hair, I bit her

She clawed and scratched

But in the end nobody won 

and Pablo sleeps with us both

I love Pablo the way a sunfish loves the water

But I weep when he is cruel

His temper is a boiling cauldron

He pushes me, slaps me

I never know what will set him off 

I try to escape

but I always come back

He promises he will control his anger 

We met last year at the Cafe des Deux Magots

I had gone there just to meet him

Pablo was 54, I was 28

He was famous, I was still new

So thrilling

And now, of course, I am his muse

He told me to abandon my photography career

To Pablo, photography is second-rate art

Even though I'd been recognized more and more

Now I am known only as Pablo’s mistress 

And, yes, as the weeping woman  

On "Portrait of Pierre Loti" by Henri Rousseau

Henri has completed my portrait

A masterpiece, if I say so myself  

Rarely have I looked more handsome 

My piercing eyes

My Mona-Lisa-like expression

And, best of all, my gorgeous black and yellow stripes

We felines, indeed, are rulers of the Universe

I invited my manservant to pose with me

His name is Loti, Pierre

He came along with the house  

You might think Pierre somewhat dim  

in his turban and starched white collar

with his wrinkly crinkly mustache

He is not the brightest lightbulb in the chandelier 

But his duties require little intellect

Pierre brings me food and water when I wish them

Keeps me well supplied with catnip

Provides fresh sand daily in my box de litère

My bed for naps, my toys to amuse me

Perhaps a ball of yarn

He will pet me for hours at a time

Or take me on outings to the Bois de Boulogne 

Pierre asks for nothing in return

And I rarely show him any attention

He is ecstatic if I give him a single purr  

If feeling whimsical, I might bring him a dead mouse

Our relationship, seemingly lopsided, is fair and equitable

My sheer presence is fully rewarding to Pierre

I have only the one misgiving

I am less than amused by his smoking  

Henri Magritte, The Choice : An Ekphrastic Peom

Our acquaintance, Everyman, is readying for the day

The accoutrements spread out on the rack

A bowler hat for sun or breeze

His trusty umbrella to fend off showers

And a choice of faces for his round of activities

On the left, a scowling, angry self

Eyebrows arched, mouth turned downward 

A face to instill fear in his underlings 

Or express disgust at the politicians’ vagaries 

To the right, a face more benign

Lips curling upward into a smile

An expression more kindly, more inclusive

But also a face that constrains its wearer to niceties  

Everyman vacillates back and forth 

The faces, of course, are not his alone

They reside on the rack

Standardized, stereotypic, available to all 

On loan from society for one’s temporary use

Like the red bikes behind the grocery store   

We can borrow whatever faces we prefer 

But care must be taken 

Faces we wear determine who we are in the world 

The power and the pitfall of the mask

What They Are Thinking: Three Mini-Poems

István Farkas (1887-1944)

The Aged Sailor and the Old Woman (1939)

This lady, though unsightly, is a prospect 

I could marry her and go off to sea 

It appears she’s insanely wealthy 

Without doubt, there’d be millions for me

The Captain is after my riches 

But my lawyers can take care of that

He would look distinguished at my soiree 

In his handsome white beard and his hat 

István Farkas

Man and Woman in the Window (1939)

She looks stunningly pretty in her outfit

I am so inferior to her

We will have to end it this evening

A tragedy of life, as it were 

My lipstick is smeared

My hair is a mess 

I so want to please him 

I’ll buy a new dress

István Farkas

Separated (1941)

I do feel slight guilt about leaving

How will she ever make do?

I am all that she has in this world 

Too bad that she hasn’t a clue 

And off he goes, la de da

I pray he’ll get on with his life

This is my best moment ever

So unpleasant, being his wife 

Murder in the Swiss Alps: An Ekphrastic Poem

René Magritte, “The Menaced Assassin”

The scene: The Swiss Alps chalet of 

  Mademoiselle Camille Gautier 

  heiress to the Marchand Deschamps winery fortune

Newly occupied, the rooms remain sparse 

Mademoiselle, age 29, unclothed, 

lies motionless on her red chaise lounge

Her limbs, relaxed, akimbo 

Her scarf draped casually across her shoulders

Mademoiselle’s throat, severed to the spine, 
     blood oozing from her lips

Her lover, her killer, Valentin Lacroix, is about to depart

At ease, nonchalant, impeccably dressed

Bag packed, hat and coat resting neatly on the chair 

He pauses at the gramophone

And listens one last time to a favorite aria

Unruffled, Lacroix shows no remorse

Having falsely imagined Camille’s infidelity,

He has extracted the ultimate revenge

Hand in pocket, gripping the weapon, he listens nostalgically 

To the song that the lovers once shared

Three brothers, the triplets Girard from the village,

Peer in from the balcony

Have witnessed the entire tragedy

Impassive, unblinking, they remind us that evil deeds

never escape the public’s unrelenting eye

Unknown to the assassin, Mademoiselle’s father

  doubting Lacroix’s character and intentions 

has hired two St. Moritz detectives, 

the twin brothers Gaspard and Gabin Fournier

to follow Lacroix and gather the facts

Lurking in the foyer, Gaspard has his club, Gabin his net  

At song’s end, the Fourniers will entrap the assassin 

Perhaps clubbing him to unconsciousness or worse 

The violent death of Camille Gautier 

offers many truths to young and old 

Life is a precarious, unpredictable affair

Momentous behaviors result from folly and delusion

Men act with violence, brutal men murder women

Love and hate, seeming opposites, are inseparably intertwined

Nighthawks, by Edward Hopper (1942)

The downtown streets were empty and dark

Twelve thirty on a Saturday night

Joe’s Diner was brightly lit but stark

A refuge for nighthawks in flight

Three customers lingered at this late hour

A lone man, a middle-aged pair

The woman and man looked brittle and dour

Her scarlet red dress matched with her hair

The couple were there from the late late show

They’d seen Joan Fontaine at the Strand

The woman’s tears still continued to flow

The man found it hard to withstand

The diner was near the end of their date

But neither could find much to say

She picked at her food but she barely ate

They had waited long weeks for this day

The stranger watched the two from afar

His wife had died five years before

He knew what grief and loneliness are

Just staying alive was a chore

The counterman offered them cherry pie

He hoped that they’d leave, then he’d close

The man just shook his head with a sigh

The woman was immersed in her woes

They’d been married for thirteen up and down years

But now they’d been six months apart

Being together renewed all their fears

Both knew they could never restart

Joe’s Diner was a suitable place to end

It symbolized their loss and their plight

There might come a time when they could be a friend

But for now these hawks vanished in the night

Lamentations of a Dutch Boy at the Peasant Wedding Feast (with thanks to Pieter Bruegel the Elder)

Woe is me, Oh woe is me

This wedding is pointless and crazy

My sister has married a maniac

He’s not only brutish but lazy

I’m the only boy at this wedding

Why are they torturing me?

Yorick is out playing soccer

I’d cut off my nose to be free

I thought that the preacher would never stop

And then he invited them to kiss

People shouldn’t do stuff in public

Especially if kissing my sis

And what will they do on their wedding night?

Yorick claims they both will get nude

I myself don’t think that would happen

My sister has said that’s so lewd

The food at this wedding is awful

I’m tired of eating pigs’ tails

The kidney soup had the strangest smell

Even worse were those rabbit entrails

I’ve seen that young girl at the table before

Hilda, I think, is her name

I could ask her to sit and talk with me

But probably she’d say that’s too lame

Old Lars de Groot is off by himself

Yorick says that he’s losing his mind

He’s wearing his trousers inside out

So his front is at his behind

Mrs. De Vries is talking too loud

She thinks that she’s ever so clever

But no one has heard a single word

She tells the same story forever

Mr. De Jong looks so gloomy

His wife ran away with a stranger

They say his house has fallen apart

I heard he sleeps in the manger

This music is made for old fogies

The bagpipes are scorchy and squeaky

We’re in the sixteenth century, you know

You’d think they’d play something less freaky

My father has drunk too much liquor

The grin on his face is so sappy

My mother is flirting with the butcher

What on earth has made her so happy?

All in all, the adults are boring

They sit and they guzzle and chat

I’m tired of hearing about weather and crops

Or how Mayor de Groot got so fat

I doubt if I’ll ever get married

If I do, I hope it’s Matilda

Of course, Matilda’s quite popular

That’s why I should go and meet Hilda