—after Helen Frankenthaler's Monoscape, 1969
She wanted just the art, not the artist.
An erasure of that presence, so ennobled
by her male contemporaries, busy spilling
themselves across cotton duck they unrolled
on mine-is-bigger warehouse floors.
A precise stain on the sailcloth, instead, which led
to another, another, to mark where there had always
been the painting, waiting. Its richly soaked hues,
pink and purple, rust and blue, an inevitability.
Its softness, like melted wax, an illusion. Each shape
discreet, each edge calibrated to blend or break.
Perhaps a range of mountains, a cloudy sunrise.
No lines or shadows to reassure. Only form and color.
Perceptual depth unsettled, everything could shift,
push and pull, nothing even as solid as it appeared.
The painting now a live thing, breathing, on its own.
-
Winter Feature 2014
-
Editor's Note
-
Poetry
- Betty Adcock
- Robin Behn
- Lorna Knowles Blake
- Michael Collier
- Brendan Constantine
- Patrick Donnelly
- Robert Fanning
- Marta Ferguson
- Miranda Field
- Rebecca Foust
- Jennifer Grotz
- Gerry LaFemina
- Daniel Lawless
- Diane Lockward
- Cleopatra Mathis
- Esther Morgan
- Martha Rhodes
- Joshua Robbins
- J. Allyn Rosser
- R.T. Smith
- Allen Strous
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Fiction
-
Essay