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| Yes, But must |
| it always, with you, |
| ----------turn sour in the end? |
| ----------Last night, |
| the talk intense & good as usual: |
| though even at the start there is |
| an intimation of November in your voice - |
| ----------bruise of sleet, |
| ----that withering. And also in |
| ----the way your fine-boned hands thrash, talking: |
| ------------------as if you always have to underline |
| ---------------how you've had to traffic |
| ----with other ways of dying |
| ---------------than the body's. Talking, |
| ---------------you seem to take a trip, Joan, |
| -----back to the roots of why you paint: |
| ---------------the father, whose hands on you |
| ---------------were & always will apparently |
| ---------------be those of a competent surgeon. |
| -----Mother, |
| brilliant. But a ghost. |
| ---------------And that old photo of you they keep: |
| -----the 1940 Brenda Frazier hairdo; |
| -----but something primitive about the way |
| --------------those adolescent breasts, that crook of neck |
| --------------communicate spite, |
| -----an anger at your innocence. Something primitive too |
| --------------about the look |
| --------------brooding on your poodle George. |
| -------------------Who |
| --------------------died. |
| But not the memory of that ecstatic afternoon |
| you spent with him at Barnes Hole on Long Island: |
| -----dark wet fur bristly with lights |
| -----------as he zigzagged in the grass |
| -----or paddled about the pool: |
| -----------that barbaric yellow spring |
| -----you suddenly, there, |
| -----------discovered in yourself - unique |
| as an act |
| of love. And yet, |
| -----------that afternoon apparently |
| -----------was good enough |
| -----------to hurt forever. Joan, |
| -----I've never seen your New York studio: |
| -----but I imagine from our talks a girl staring |
| or slashing at a canvas on the wall - |
| -----------thrashing hands |
| -----------delicate & instinctive as a dream. |
| -----Those hardbitten illuminations |
| -----in the act of painting - a way, |
| perhaps, to find the guts to face the fact |
| -----that love is the name we give our terror. |
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Posted 8/27/98 |
| You can order a copy of the Evergreen Review Reader 1967-1973 by clicking on the link below. Evergreen Review Reader 1967-1973 paperback
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