Sabasa Garcia stood in the lone window

of a castle tower in Catalunia 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 vine. 


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:

the Future. 


This world of walls, imaginary lines,

collages made maps 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 Chirico. 


And the dreams persisted, the boating

parties on Seine, a touch of sun,

whatever we could glimpse in the

midst of tragedy: ore stubborn refusal

to make the dreams come true. 



All images and text copyrighted.  All rights reserved.    Copyright 2002 David Wiley.