“Which is best,” they asked us,
“which -
is work of paint or pen more rich?
Which best describes, imprints,
explains?”
“Visual art,” you cried,
“remains.”
How could I know, and how decide?
Nothing visual showed you lied.
“I’m going away, sweetheart,” you
said,
leaving your picture by the bed;
“Remember me, I’ll soon be home...
”
I found a frame. I wrote a poem -
of you and the sea and the rising
tide,
and a song that sang inside,
inside;
the way your hair hung crisp with
sand,
the feel of your cheekbone in my
hand,
the crooked lines about your eye,
the tiny scar along your thigh;
the falling light, the night, the
wine,
the heart that beat so close to
mine...
My flat was burned; heat cracked
the frame,
picture and poem turned to flame.
You never came and something died
but still the words stay locked
inside.
That picture of your face is dead
while words keep burning in my
head;
they dance and spin, imprint,
accuse -
the writers win, the painters
lose.
Destroy the painting: lose the
art.
Words are printed in the heart.
(January,
1990)
