​Three Nocturnes by Childe Hassam, by Jean L. Kreiling

A New Year's Nocturne, by Childe Hassam (USA) 1892

 
A New Year’s Nocturne, New York 
  
He can’t imagine what she’s staring at; 
there’s nothing much to see through that plate glass— 
nothing as classy as his coat and hat 
or bright as her own dress. Why won’t she pass 
this dullness by, as others do, and stroll 
the year’s last hours away with him?  He tries 
to coax her, but he knows he can’t control 
this woman he once charmed.  Between his lies 
and her baffling rebellions, what remains 
between them is their duties and routines, 
and nothing more; a formal night out strains 
the roles they play in unconvincing scenes.   
In time she’ll turn to him, and stroll along, 
and smile, as if it hasn’t all gone wrong.

​Nocturne, Railway Crossing, Chicago, by Childe Hassam (USA) 1893

​Nocturne, Railway Crossing, Chicago 
  
Her friends—inside already—might suppose 
this ride unpleasant—but despite the rain, 
it’s cozy in this carriage, and she knows 
she’ll get there soon enough.  The passing train 
has forced her driver to a stop; she wonders 
if others in her place would rather be 
aboard that charging iron horse; it thunders 
through town and field, each car lit brilliantly. 
She’s quite content just to observe the scene: 
the counterpoint of speed and stillness, light 
and dark; the air and streets washed clean; 
the vaguely dazzling puddles that invite 
reflection.  She’ll be glad to see her friends, 
but not because that means this journey ends.

Paris Nocturne, by Childe Hassam (USA) 1893

Paris Nocturne 
 
Just like the crowd behind her, she wears black, 
but knows that on her it looks more severe, 
because she’s tall, because of her straight back 
and tiny waist.  She knows she won’t endear 
herself to them by walking off this way, 
apparently rejecting friends and lights 
and flowers—she’s too moody, they might say— 
but what she seems to need most from these nights 
is just this solitary darkness.  Wrapped 
in shadows, she remembers grief, and knows 
what Chopin meant; she senses depths untapped 
by those who would forget, and so dispose 
of half of music, much of love.  Alone, 
she hears a silent nocturne of her own.

Jean L. Kreiling 
 
​Jean L. Kreiling is the author of two poetry collections, Arts & Letters & Love  (2018) and The Truth in Dissonance (2014).  Her work has been honored with the Able Muse Write Prize, the Great Lakes Commonwealth of Letters Sonnet Award, the Kelsay Books Metrical Poetry Award, a Laureates’ Prize in the Maria W. Faust Sonnet Contest, three New England Poetry Club prizes, and the String Poet Prize.