The Curator Poem by Gregory Wm. Gunn

A Piranesi design, sinuous in expanding umbra,
night-mantled as grey cell bars are drawn
in ponytails, gangway ghosts to the lashing.

The laden blade in the trembling hand
of van Gogh, unappreciated, slices across
canvas, nourished by day-old crusts & brie.

Magritte beneath his sternum felt the pecking
blackbirds desperate to feed on his heart,
amid bowler hats, birdlime and sky.

Bending backward, Turner's brush, bursting
with vibrancy, saw scenes between breaks
in his medium; filled their imperfections
with total spectrum that cried for even more
colour to mix hair & oiled wood to old crusts.

Fuseli's vision of painted perfection caused
him to dream in black & white; aroused him
from many a repose to drink to excess, tearing
cloth in the nightmare rack of restless air.

The blood & flesh of Rembrandt's palette dried
like unattended cuts, scarred over without anti-
septic treatment, brushes are imbued in red wine,
dogs bark for broken bread, and the disciples
clear the table of the final feast of Jesus.




June 28,2008
GWG