Abstract
the winds gathered. The ragged road ended in tall grass.
Those late strokes, that visual letting go, always stop us short,
invoke our chatter, our critical surmise. We continue to gaze
at the small canvas, the birds aloft, heading our way, the skies
ever dramatic in the Dutchman’s dark eye. Even from cheap textbook
copies, the crows drop down among us, offering dejection, resurrection,
or just a sign of menace, according to those who know. Way back
in the 50s, we got an eyeful of the work, in Raleigh on our first trip
to a gallery. We were transfixed by the smeary colors, the ugly
self-portrait, but mostly the crows. In this art, nothing ethereal,
just plain people, wide brushes, stars like moons, a bandaged ear.
Meanwhile our lives spread out: Eisenhower, Korea, a white sports coat
and a pink carnation. And Way Over There Somewhere, a quiet
increase in troops. We weren’t looking, we didn’t even have a map.
But always what is to come comes. Today we’re told that the final
secret file on the young president’s murder is soon to be released
on the cusp of some anniversary or other, we can’t remember.
Even those of us who were alive then, who were in fact there,
shattered, our heels on the curb near the cortège or our arms
cradling a tree limb to see better the multitudes of mourners,
to stare down into the long dark limousine bearing the wife,
the small children: even we have smudged memories.
So let’s return once more to the 35 millimeter film, his brain flying
loose, she, eternally desperate for retrieval, endlessly crawling over
the back of the car, an unseemly move in the relentless glare.
Fast forward, replay, replay. Not a cloud in the sky. A long time ago,
but not so long, we know. We are fields of harvest wheat. Auden wrote
what Van Gogh knew. I know he knew. Don’t tell me
the painter didn’t see it coming, the images in and out of control,
the crows just over his shoulder, thrumming,
©Sarah Gordon
*1890