The Farrier Hears the Call of the Sea
Shadows of Italy, horses, a man,
the barn strewn with tools, curry brush and hay---
the open door to the sea. The blue bay
where gulls scud, home to the great pelican;
one feels the heartbeat of whales in this dark
place. The farrier lifts his heavy head
at the whisper of a sound. Now the dead
rise as white clouds, sailing like Noah's ark.
Following the instinct to work alone,
sweat forming on his face and upper brow,
the shadows hide what is now almost gone.
It is the last act in a lantern show:
two horses stamp by the unswept hay stalls---
the day flushes to crimson as the night falls.
- Italian sonnet by, Calvin Green
The Realist
(for Clark Gussin)
In August, when the wheatfields flame into gold,
There is brilliance to the brush and pen,
Past all remembrance, forgetfulness, sin
As Pisces and the Scorpion unfold
Their ghostly faces. It is blue midnight
And the brush still, the painting finished,
The house grown quiet, now undiminished
By any slant of sun or Northern light,

What is the meaning behind Van Eyck or
The Northern masters? What reverent words,
Praise of God, issues from their age-cracked lips?
Realism is its own reward. Is your
Mastery peaked when in peace with the Lord?s
As is the hand, the brush the soul?s eclipse?

- Calvin Green (USA)

Published in "Rubies in the Darkness". Issue 16, 2010
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