September 2020
Tom Montag
tmmontag@centurylink.net
tmmontag@centurylink.net
Bio Note: I don't know what to say about this series, "The Woman in an Imaginary Painting."
When I had fifty poems, I thought that was it. Then there were 75, then 150. I hate to tell you, there
are well over 300 poems in the series at this point, end of July 2020. I don't know what the future holds,
but I do know: you never say Whoa in a horse race.
from "The Woman in an Imaginary Painting"
Would she social-distance?
Would she take a knee?
Would she love others
as the artist loved her?
There's a word for the universe
falling apart, but she
doesn't know it. When
the paint finally dried
she could have forgotten
our troubles, yet here she
is, looking out at us
with pity, a woman of such
loveliness in a world
that knows now the stink
of its own slow decay.
from "The Woman in an Imaginary Painting"
The universe is a net of hope.
The stars are not disinterested.
The woman in the painting may
be alone and lonely, yes, yet
follow the line of her symmetry
out far enough, you see it touch
her twin in some parallel place,
a sister shivering with similar
loss, enduring, as sisters will,
a long wait for something greater.
from "The Woman in an Imaginary Painting"
In her
stillness
she thinks
the world
is not
something
that is:
it is
something
you do.
©2020 Tom Montag
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