Author's Note: More than 360 poems in the series at the end of November, 2020, and The Woman in an Imaginary Painting seems to be receding, almost as if the paint has dried and there is little more to be done. Of course, as I say, never say never.
from "The Woman in an Imaginary Painting" Bless the sky out the window. Bless the window. Bless the wall, the table, the darkness in the corner of the kitchen, the darkness where her symmetry meets our eyes. Bless the light which lights her hair, which touches the flush at her throat. Bless her breasts and our eyes which see her meekness. Bless the stillness as evening comes on and the museum's emptiness. Nothing is as soft as nothing. Bless the cricket chirping its last sadness, as if nothing else matters. Bless its sadness.
from "The Woman in an Imaginary Painting" A faraway rain, the smell of it. Perhaps she would turn her head to see the storm coming in, if she had a window, if there were a storm. There is so much we don't know about out beyond the yellow walls of her kitchen, out beyond what the artist wanted to paint, and what he painted. Listen. In the distance, if only in your imagination, thunder.
from "The Woman in an Imaginary Painting" "The fear of the infinite is the same as death," Derek Walcott said, and I think he meant it. The permanence of art is the same as death the woman in the painting says. She speaks only to herself, of course. The museum is dark and she is alone. Where there is no light there is no color and a silence which breaks her heart. She would turn from darkness, yet it holds her here. This stillness is the same as death.
©2021 Tom Montag
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