Today I bought a book of Goya's works
and we debated at home if an unemployed man
should have $30 for Goya. Goya is priceless,
there was no dispute, but what's the price
on an unemployed man's head? What's an
unemployed man worth? Can he spend
thirty when there are other pressing needs at hand?
Was it
The Nude Maya
on the jacket the
man not working wanted? (Such a thing in a
yuppie's head is art; such a thing in an
unemployed man's hands is lust.)
I thought Goya should have the last word
and I opened to a page at random:
Bloodstained Saturn ate his children.
(from The Migrant - notes of a newcomer (February 1997- July 1998))
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A beautiful piece of writing Raj. I like how an incident is made into a poem. the 'message. of the piece works great with the form and structure. The question is a universal one and contains the irony that by raising the question of value of art, the question must therefore apply to the artifact, in this case this poem. At the end of the day, it is the stimulation of the reader that is the value. There is no price!