Subway: Green Line (prologue)

the college professor type, clean
shaven semi-sensitive face, with plastic
scratched and battered glasses, looks
cautiously around him -- seems cramped
in the bustle, unsure about it all . . .

the older woman, overweight, scraggly hair,
sad craggy weather-beaten face, not bothering
to hold on, lurching one way, then another
as the train swerves -- eyes closing,
opening, then closing again, wondering
what did I do, did you do, did we do
to deserve this . . .

the pleasant enough young man in suit
and tie on his way to the medical convention,
gives instructions to the tourists, the way
to Monet in the 20th century, the Museum
of Fine Arts "it's great, really great,
all those water lilies" he says . . .

the thin gaunt man, stubble chin,
splotched irrelevant clothes,
vacant assassin eyes . . .

the young woman, dark close cut hair
framing oval locket face, her forehead
pressed intently into the vertical chrome
pole, receiving and sending vibrations . . .

the curved indentation, I imagine,
still there.

Waterloo Bridge: Sunlight Effect, 1903
(Catalogue # 20)

background pavement grey cigarette
smokestacks -- polluted blues, toxic greens
swirling industrial waste resting on --
growing out of the vague shape of bridge --

with the illusion of movement, the wind
swept ripples, the bridge appears as a train
or steamboat, or segmented serpent chugging
away from the source of light

toward the dark side where the slightly lighter
grey arch openings are eyes of a lazing giant
with stringy diarrhea -- green/brown
ripple mouth -- half smile, half sneer

away from sunlight filtering through the smog
in the upper right -- streams of yellow, cream,
cascading through smoke crevices -- orange, mauve
and small specks of red -- charged particles
in the sky -- and,
in the sea, mellowed reflections
emanating from the lit margin --

flickering light surrounding a thin rock spar
or a boat with birds and what could be a man
with an easel in the midst of glitter and spots
of blood in infested waters --
                                             a man like
Monet gazing up at the light which brightens
the darkening Thames,
                                   Monet, himself,

celebrating the light
that cannot be extinguished.

Houses of Parliament, Seagulls, 1904
(Catalogue # 22)

a base of green brown weed ripples
like thin fish swimming, mirroring
the gulls swimming in the air below
the right wing parliament spires rising
out of, settling back into the faded
royal purple fog sea soup,

to the left, a small stick boat, a man
and his reflection form a cross
floating or planted in the eerie mauve
silver grey violet pastel mist . . .

in the lightening sky above -- one bird,
a quivering dart embedded 1/3 the way
down, in the heart of a ghostly purple
vestured creature -- the highest tower,
with slightly leaning turrets, shuddering
in the damp wind -- arms raised in
malediction or surrender --

the rest of the flock -- a wailful choir,
turning and returning -- flitting between
adherence and abandon -- a fragile mobile
held together by invisible threads --

an uneasy crown
around the tower.

Houses of Parliament: Sunset: 1904
(Catalogue # 24)

gothic blue black turrets, one long
silhouette in London fog trench coat,

the angry sun burning through, spreading
ripples of fire in the pool above -- bruise
purple flecks around the edges, dripping blood

and the reflection below -- the same tongues
of light in the cloud grey sea -- as intense
as the shrouded source -- the boundary line
            between water and sky dissolved --

only the jutting graph of empire
remains between the two masses
of burning gasses --
between
the burning eyes of heaven above
and Monet below.

Water Lilies 1908
(Catalogue # 38)

round -- a large blue/green/yellow marble,
a globe, a world in microcosm -- eerie
correspondences with our own --

though the light and the lilies
make a difference, more pastels --

Antarctica, half melted, breaking into
a cluster of white pad icebergs,
lit by a trinity of lemon blooms,

a pale blue pond ocean, sunlit
reflections of weeping willow strands
as solid land -- distant light cream
Mediterranean between yellow green
continents --
                    Europe and Africa
merging into one flat green fish island
swimming westward with an egg mass
of lilies -- light red, white,
melting pink raspberry swirls --
drifting away, behind . . .

the whole illusion of land drifting,
one green quiver, a long bearded Africa
exhaling white mist into the Atlantic

brush stroke breath with faint yellow
flames congealing to green

and two red and white lilies,
tadpole beings, half swimming,
half holding on to a lemon-lime raft,

setting out to establish an Atlantis
with fresh elements of their own --

see, see, . . . a mythical kingdom
is born.

Water Lilies: 1907
(Catalogue # 39)

on both sides, aqua/grey pads with pairs
of ladybug eyes poised for takeoff, round reds
popping out of their flat heads that look
like lichen covered stones thrown by
an ambidextrous boy, flat stones skimming
across the wriggly forest green willow
                                                          shadows,
on both sides of the white stream
of light cascading over their edges,
the pure spirit descending,
                                         diving
beneath that two pad diptych bridge where
the skipping stones meet -- the bridge
with a line of yellow flowers, two pair
of flickering headlights across it --

yellow eyes above frosted wisps of beard --
waterfalls of frozen ice light emerging,
pouring down into Monet's world pool,

chilling the genes in the scene below
where the pads are smaller, lighter
in sunlight -- where a school
of pale green fish feed beneath
the skirts of a wraith-like being --

melting ice, evaporating, ascending,
gliding under the bridge, climbing the pad
step ladder -- ghostly sprite, giggling
at the tickling sensation, the nibbling
away of its base, the dissolving boundary
line between one form of being
and another --
                       its vaporous head
cropped by the top margin.

The Grand Canal: 1908
(Catalogue # 51)

the slightly diagonal piling
dividing the canvas, his beloved
Alice dead, his life two thirds,
three fourths gone
                            the two thirds to
three fourths to the right of the piling --
the vague shimmering two domed palace
and other buildings -- in sunlight
and shadow -- memorial vault structures
with their sunset reflections
burning on the water

and what's left -- the foreground --
third or fourth of the canvas -- clearer,
more direct lines, paintbrush stalks
rising out of the grand canal -- bright
fire sticks -- glowing orange, red
with magenta-purple brush heads
smoldering . . .
                       and the curls of
green black shells holding the precious
yellow light --
                      gondola ferries
rocking in the distance.

Water Lilies: 1914-17
(Catalogue # 63)

the cool blues that usually dominate
Monet's lilies relegated to tiny insects
shaking their white tipped paintbrush fingers --

mantic, mastic stalks swaying, bowing,
waving, praying in the bottom left corner
of this nearly square enlarged canvas,

paying homage to the yellow green ghost
cloud steam
                   rising from a frog head
green breakfast pad table replete with dishes

of bloom and a centerpiece -- a blurry pair
of pinkish gray tuft eyebrows above one bruised,
one winking eye in the back of the mind --

green wavy hair blending with the table
continent, shifting tectonic plates, palates,
palettes, a great vowel shift from pain

to pan to pen -- from paint to pant to pent up
aching streams of consciousness, from "ay" to "ah"
to "eh" -- plates blending with the runny,

sunny eggs . . . sharp contrast with two deep
strawberry daubs on ashen cheeks -- not blending
with anything -- ripe blushes -- shining

with flushed red, different in kind . . .

from the molten discs in the forehead blending
with the pale canary island eyes on the top rim
blending with the mauve fog breath border

blending with the yellow green mist creature
swimming or doing the dead man's float --
its bowed head bumping into the ringed light

stone pads -- a trinity of flying saucer
haloes -- blocking the exit -- upper right.

The Water Lily Pond at Giverney: 1917
(Catalogue # 74)

I

the sprite, a thin red flower/tree stands,
sprouts out of an aqua grass slope above
the algae brown pond; an ethereal being
in red, it stands, knees slightly bent,
its head half bowed before the weeping
willows -- taller, spooky elders, emerging
out of a jaded navy greenish purple void --

the wooden tribunal, scowling, scolding judges
with a druid deacon presiding in the center --
slightly hunchbacked, wearing a splotched
olive and yellow flame tongued cloak

with what could be a brown rod, a rope,
a curving handle of a torch, a serpent,
a scepter, a pen, a weapon of some kind
grasped in an outstretched, hovering hand,

II

to our right, in the far margin -- white
flakes fall from a blue-grey sky upon
botched twisted figures of minor artists --
dark envy green pretzel thin drawn out insects --

III

on the other hand, a harlequin hakim,
an examiner, an art critic, perhaps, a general,
or the Kaiser, himself -- with a hollow, full moon
death mask face, a mottled coat of many colors,
a grayish, greenish once royal purple collar,

and points of his dark crown weeping
pale lemon colored tears --

IV

all this authority surrounding the besieged
but gallant sprite (Zola, perhaps, or Monet,
himself) standing on a rock, on the shore
of the stagnant pond -- the reflections
of his petal/leaves: red coal eyes glowing

in the murky wretched vomit yellow,
excremental brown reflections
of the would be holy trees. ...

V

or -- step back
                        and see the men,
the would be judges disappear,

see the yellow flame as radiant background,
the light of setting suns, bursting
through scrawny limbs,

and the red burning bush --
silent in awe before it.

The Japanese Bridge, c1919-24
(Catalogue # 80)

barely visible, burgundy bruised gray clay
planks, aqua wisteria railings -- pincer claws
or the open jaws of some land sea serpent

with walking, creeping, running, flying,
swimming yellow figures trapped within, caged
creatures between stalactite teeth -- the bridge,

a mysterious transport, an animal cracker circus
caravan conveying these magi (and us, perhaps)
from one state of being, one outlook, one world

to another and another and another -- from left
to right, from earth to heaven, from east to west,
from north to south, above to below and back

to front, to back and forth from sunlit leaves
to their reflections, from the eternal flame
to the shrouded boatmen in the stream below,

from strokes to daubs, from pond to pads, from
ripples to reality, from eyesight to vision, back
and forth from this life to the next, to the last,

from earth to water, vapor, and fire, from desire
to touch to torch, from delight to rage to wisdom,
from yellow to orange to red to purple --
                                                               tongues

of many colors, all burning, a conflagration,
a hell enveloping the bridge that is still there,
an aqua green prayer, connecting flesh to spirit,

stretching from eyes to brain, to fingers, and mouth,
from sensation to thought, and eternity, from ticks
to clocks, from the beating heart to brush fires

of the mind, to ambivalent, but still discernible
structures, from all those undulating squiggles
unto death, the woven bridge --
                                                 a swaying
transport back and forth from all
to none of the above.

Weeping Willow: 1918
(Catalogue # 82)

Gnarled old tree, elongated neck, head
and open jaws of an angry dragon being, rearing,
breathing yellow flames and fumes -- slight
trace of red dripping from the forked
and flicking tongue --
                                 trunk dark,
with burning orange rind and red
rage at the core -- intense flame
consumes the surrounding bark

the exposed, lacerated heart
pours forth phrase after phrase,
note after note, strand after strand
of willow lashes,
                          lemon strokes,
commas, squirming runes of yester-years,
a rain of tracer fire, yellow worms,
peering eyes, tears, sperm cells
settling into a ghost figure
in the center --
                       a man or god
descending into or rising up out of
the infernal bloody pond,
                                      his hands raised
in benediction or despair --
                                          conducting
all the phases of pain and praise,
requesting,
                 commanding

the audience rise
and be seated --

take in the whole view.

The Path Under the Rose Arches
(Catalogue # 85)

Late November Rorschach test, burnt leaves,
drained, bled colors, charred salad,

parabolic layers of rust, brittle yellow,
squeamy olive, hovering drear shades

of green and brown, tangled growth --
different shaggy eared beasts or men,

different heads, depending on which layers,
which eyes you focus on, a wide variety

of great brooding beings over and around
the yellow worm step path --

Monet's last path -- the gullet,
made only for him -- leading to

the faint blur of red -- the maw
of all the slouching beasts --

or a barely visible home in the void
in the center --
                       or the last trace
of petals of the last rose.

We follow behind, tentative, unsure,
with uneasy tread, knowing that each

false step on the dry leaves
disturbs the dead.

The House Seen from the Rose Garden: 1922-24
(Catalogue # 87 )

in what's left of receding sunlight -- bright
yellow, intense, spirit breath squeezed out
of the open mouth of the foliage head
dreaming back through eighty years . . .

puffs of sunlight floating across the valley,
the faintest hint of arm outstretched --
reaching, painting . . .

                                  yellow puffs,
balloon bubbles above the artist's house,

the pair of young, thin stick figures,
arms extended to each other, on the edge
of the precipice:
                         vague distant view
of Claude and Camille, his first wife,
who died in 1879, age 32,

or Claude and Alice, his second, died 1911,

or Camille and Alice,

or Monet and his easel

or all of the above . . .

the yellow smoke breath, the cliff, the house,
the figures, the head itself --
                                           bubbles
and solid earth tones -- rust, dirt, blood,
and mold -- the composition cracked with
fault lines -- the cliff crumbling --
the foundations dissolving
before our very eyes
                                the foliage head
straining wave after wave
of pulsing red -- rage
                                 emerging from
roiling clay -- swirling pigments --
the molten pool -- the burning bed --
the strokes of flame --
                                   the sweet hell
of dying light.

Panel: the Water Lily Pond, Evening: 1920-26
(Catalogue # 88)

The same motif as earlier slighter work,
cascading light in the center flanked by
lilies, darker flower shadows -- here

entire panels: in the left, a purple strife
flower being, flailing, drowning, praising,
swimming on and beneath the blood dimmed tide

and in the right panel an aqua, cooler man
floating on his back -- blues, but mostly
muck -- browns and olive weeds around --

entire panels abound with stories, poems
of their own on both sides of the cataract
of light ducking under the pad bridge -- here,

in the center, the yellow mist -- spirit
steam rising off the surface of the pond
becomes charged, transformed -- ignites
as it passes beneath, comes out above
the bridge --
                    glowing sunset peach
and orange in the shape of a man,
arm extended in friendship --

a man who has looked clearly and deeply
into the revelations of the universe,
and borne witness -- a man who says:

"put your hand in mine
and let us help one another
to see things better."

his words -- mine -- ripples fading away
from the paint's splash.