December 23, 2007

Between the Lines

     for Dorothea Tanning*

Oldest living emerging poet you said
of yourself at ninety-four
after stroked canvas, stitched silks
got all stashed away.

My poem pales against your
mars orange, dragon's blood
blackthorn berry.
And oh, aubergine
with its rounded sheen of wicked color.

You rose insistently above sorrow
widowed by your one beloved,
became your own reliable muse
summoning, an Interior
of Sudden Joy, soft sculpture
a bursting mug
of Don Juan's Breakfast.
And who is it Reclining Nude in pink wool?

Our bohemian who loves aubergine
as do I, writes in ink a black
as deep as purple
paints our tomes to freedom
flowers or novae
a postwar torso
from your French years with Max.

*painter and sculptor, only woman
in the Surrealist world of men

—Kathleen Adcock

Posted by dwaber at December 23, 2007 04:30 PM