Bal du Moulin de la Galette Jostled and elbowed at the Musée d'Orsay by people clicking, first at each painting, then at its attribution, I start to realize no one's looking at the canvases, just their screens. And so my nature morte composes itself, as I wait by the leather banquettes for a few still minutes, until a flock of cell phone users settles like pigeons on a park bench, more interested in checking messages and posting on Facebook than watching Renoir's dancers whirling and dipping, light and shade stippling their stiff dresses, their serge suits, their rosy skin. Here in Montmartre, on a Sunday afternoon, the hall is bathed in sun filtering through the trees, dappling the woman in the blue-and-white striped dress, the men with their straw boaters. Even the glasses on the table ring with song. But on this Sunday, in the museum, none of this registers. Hunched over, waiting for the ping of incoming, faces laved in pixelated light, drawn to the world of two dimensions, thumbs are the only thing moving. A faint hint of batter sizzling in butter enters the room, along with distant phrases of accordion music. You can almost hear the turtledoves twitter and tweet in the far-off trees. . . . Barbara Crooker This poem first appeared in Barbara Crooker's book, Some Glad Morning (Pitt Poetry Series, University of Pittsburgh Poetry Press, 2019). Barbara Crooker is the author of many books of poetry; The Book of Kells and Some Glad Morning are recent. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies, including The Bedford Introduction to Literature, Commonwealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania, The Poetry of Presence and Nasty Women: An Unapologetic Anthology of Subversive Verse. www.barbaracrooker.com
1 Comment
Becky Ellis
5/27/2020 02:25:30 pm
The vividness of watching those who are not watching. Makes for beautiful layers.
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February 2025
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