Red Sun, 1935
Arthur Dove

Untitled (Crosswalk), 1981
Garry Winogrand

Untitled (Lighted Dancer), c. 1949
Joseph Cornell

Isadora Duncan, 1911
John Sloan

Once and Upon

Cross at the morning
and at waking,
with a mourning for summer,
she crossed the bridge Now
over the river Gone
toward the place called New
to begin her Once Upon.

Once and Upon
daddy long legs
walked in a web of work
for my sisters and me,
as Mother spun round
with silver knives and forks
in a shining of pans,
a wash of mondays
and plans
for our lives ten thousand weeks.

To cross the bridge Now
over the river Gone
toward the place called New
to begin her Once Upon,
in a mourning for summer, she moved
to write her right becoming
and find her true beloved.

Snippets and tags of Gone,
criss-crossed as retold,
beggared the strumming
of fresh rhythms
that should have stirred her becoming.

Once and Upon
she ate the plum
and from a full mouth
disgorged the pit
into her hand
while Mother spun as she canned
peach and plum in season-
the land, holy Mother to
the plentiful fruit.

To cross.
But where should her steps lead
away from the river?

Through a desert she hurried,
thirsting she ran
to reach becoming,
passed three water holes
but never saw them,
so eager was she to reach
outward evidence
of her inward drawing.

Sisters of grace
comely, sea-washed,
with blond shell hair and skin,
whirling with intermittent passion
amidst daddy long legs
and Mother awash
among the underthings,
boys shouting and running,
swaggering and dying
for the sisters' charms.
AMEN!

Tops a-spin in a dying dance.
Yoo Hoo, Fatty! Buck!
Hi, Pete! Hello, old Gene!

Cross at the morning
summer crossed with the beginning
of gold,
a sea of brown leaves swirling.
And no trees bent down
to whisper their wisdom
for her becoming.
Ah! New! Ah! Gone! Ah! Now!
Ah! Once Upon!

Madeline Gleason

Portrait of Anna Akhmatova, 1914
Natan Altman

Wedding, Budapest, 1965
László Fejes

Poem at the Fairground

Tuba's a sun & beneath it
the fair's passing by,
see it breathing out old
Captive Pegasuses.
This fair
is a wheel.
A lightwheel high up
in the night.

See the carousel making
concentric circles,
see them snake through the atmosphere
up to the moon.
And a boy all the poets
have lost,
& a music box grinding away
on the breeze.

Federico García Lorca

The Blue Bicycle, 1979
Will Barnet