By J.J. Tindall
Carl Sandburg and Marilyn Monroe
New sculptures in light
have emerged from the archives.
Portraits of American gods, and gods they were
and perhaps remain.
People they were, too, first, visiting
in a New York apartment.
Apollo and Aphrodite,
blond on blonde, buxom meets erudite.
And the host, with his chisel,
the lens. Three acquaintances drinking
Jack Daniels, but images
of the ideal, transcending
time and mortality.
She, goddess of sex,
dead within a year.
He, god of poetry and song,
already well along but
surviving some years more.
Sitting for their portraits,
images of the ideal.
Just images. A movie of the sitting
would have half the power,
probably less. The still images
are the gods, symbols
of our most cherished aspirations.
I bet the conversation was boring!
A forgotten encounter, a trivial
passing-through, until captured,
and preserved, then lost.
Then recovered, and revealed.
Soon after, she was dead.
In part, perhaps, from the press
for her, for her flesh, and
not the ideal her image represented,
the symbol mistaken for the truth it conveys.
Gods often die this way.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Music: MySpace page
* Fiction: A Hole To China
* Critical biography at e-poets.net
Posted on March 15, 2010