The Paintings of Edward Hopper, by Michael Harmon

Light at Two Lights, by Edward Hopper (USA). 1927.

Cape Cod Evening, 1939.

Light at Two Lights and Cape Cod Evening

as if the light, always less than it should be
on that white lighthouse in winter, or those green-
blue trees at the forest edge, her hands folded
at the recurring argument's inevitable impasse,

Drugstore, 1927.

Drugstore

or on the sidewalk outside that dull drugstore
flat and lonely covered by a gray-green tedium

Sheridan Theater, 1937.

The Sheridan Theatre

as if the light,
drowsing over that dim theatre balcony
like an orange malaise
where she peers down from the rail
he’s gone for some candy
from the girl at the counter
will he return? Or does he exist?

Bootleggers, 1925.

The Bootlegger

or bleaching air on a windy shore
where someone waits
with the cold unlit house behind her
for the white boat riding the rough trough of twilight
is he sullen, and unconcerned of returning?

Sunlight on Brownstones, 1956.

Sunlight on Brownstones

or one sits and one stands
on the stoop of the brownstone at sunset or dawn
does it matter which?
as if the light was a strange dawn or alien sunset
they see for the first time
with vacant features,
​
and always the eyes of darkness,

as if the light, weary of its own gaze,
gave up itself to a weariness it had
no business having,
glaring over uselessness
from strokes of the brush,
imperceptible on walls,
shadows and aches,
intangible as thought and desire,
as if the light was from a distant dying fire.
​

The City, 1927.

The City

as if the light, never more than it could be
on that building, gray and blue,
companions dressed in yellow-gray
or gray-white or red brick,
somber as if someone died
and we are made aware
we are the voyeurs here
and stand above the empty street below,
as if the light, losing vital essence
and no one there to validate its presence,
only those on the empty street below,

Chop Suey, 1929.

Chop Suey

as if the light, not withering or growing,
in a kind of stasis
a blue and yellow wall
the lower part of a restaurant sign,
red, unlit, inert
under pallid rays streaming through
unshaded glass
diviner of motives and meaning and forms
suggestions of hands and the angles of arms
she sits with her eyes of darkness
wondering what it was
she could have done to halt
the inevitable impasse
the other from across the white sunlit table
looks at her and trying to console,
speaks the words she thinks the other needs
there is a moment’s pause
the other’s inward glance
while vestiges of sunlight in response
presage a sad and slow unfolding,
saying, come with me,
no use in going home

Hotel by a Railroad, 1952.

Hotel by a Railroad

as if the light, defeated by a drab
white slab of stone
the response to his attempt at glibness yields
the sound of a drab white page
turned by her aging fingers,
whose fingers are these? she asks,
were those my hands that held
the brownstone rail as he leans
beside me somewhere far away?
I try to reach, but never really touch him,
never really hold him,
as if he ever wanted to be held
and now he leans in some imaginary solitude
and this grim episode holds them both
in a way they always feared
they would be held,
reading and staring,
tired of the years of impasse,
as if the light, escaping
through the doors of twilight, slipping
out of upraised hand
and downturned eyes

Room in Brooklyn, 1932.

Room in Brooklyn

as if the light, in this most dreadful place
a rocking chair beside a window,
looking out on all and nothing,
does she stare down at the street
or at the tops of the buildings?
no one hears the beating of her heart,
a tiny sound in that high room
and could her eyes be closed
by the ache of a dream
she knows descends when she turns
in her chair to face the order
that keeps her secure?
looking on nothing and all,
as if the light,
like the shadow of which she is made
transfixed by the light of the world
without a connection
and only by a terrible kind of inertia
held back from the fall,
by the stroke of a brush
forever holding her there,
as if the light

Michael Harmon

The work of Michael Harmon has appeared in The Raintown Review, The Adirondack Review, North American Review, and several other publications. He has a degree in English Literature from Long Island University and one in Computer Information Systems from Arizona State University. He resides in Scottsdale, Arizona, near my three sons.