A Lesson in Art History
Sabasa Garcia stood in the lone window
of a castle tower in Cataluña or Castile;
her Etruscan lips were the center of the frame.
She didn't paint them herself, it was Goya.
Sometime later the French were defeated.
A million muskets were stacked like
shocks of wheat in dreary cells
that served as well
for the aging of red wine.
And everything continued in a different key.
A new generation grew up to laugh at David,
whose fine classical sentiments
foundered in a lake of blood.
A willful and destructive child was born:
This world of walls, imaginary lines,
collages made from amps of war
allowed sufficient light at least to
illuminate a few dreams: Renoir, Van Gogh.
Then the future came of age, movies, TV
and all that hubbub, all that paint alone could
not produce. Sabasa Garcia still sat in her tower,
waiting for another Goya, or a Chirico.
And the dreams persisted, the boating
parties on the Seine, a touch of sun,
whatever we could glimpse in the
midst of the tragedy: our stubborn refusal
to make the dreams come true.