Classic and Contemporary Poetry
LILIES IN NEW YORK, by MARK DOTY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: A drawing: smudged shadow, deep worked areas of graphite Last Line: Open. And who could hope to draw that? Subject(s): Flowers; Lilies; New York City; Manhattan; New York, New York; The Big Apple | ||||||||
A drawing: smudged shadow, deep worked areas of graphite rendering exactly a paper-wrapped pot's particular folds, then each spiculate leaf, their complex spiraling movement up the stem, and the shining black nodes-seeds?-mounted at the intersection of stalk and leaf: a work of attention all the way up to the merest suggestion of the three flowers, a few rough unmodulated lines... what's this about? Why, up here where trumpeting crowns all this darkness, has the artist given up? Exhaustion, since he's made such a density of strokes below? This page moves from deep, pressured rendering toward these slight gestures, the flower merely sketched, barely represented. Is it that he wants us to think, This is a drawing, not a flower and so reminds us that the power of his illusion, alive below the lily's neck, is trickery? A formal joke, airy fragility over such a field of marks, warring masses, particulate suspensions (lead, black chalk, charred-coal? smoothed or scribbled or crosshatched everywhere, a made night): art's dialectic, the done and undone, dirty worked spaces and the clean blank gaze of the unfinished, with all its airy invitations? Or is it too much for him, to render that delicacy, to bring the white throat out of white paper, no hope of accuracy, and so he makes this humble gesture to acknowledge his own limitations, because the lilies are perfect, is that it, and what version of their splendor would come any closer than this wavering, errant line? Or is he indifferent to flowering, to culmination and resolution? Would he rather remain with the push of areas of darkness, hustle and dash of line, cacophony of pot and stem, roiling swoops and scrawls like clashing swathes of twilight, furious? As if the frame were filled with colliding expanses of noise (traffic, sirens, some engine hammering into the street below, barking, air brakes expelling their huge mechanical tribute to longing, arc of a train's passage and descent below the river), as if charcoal were a medium of solidified sound, is that it, which allowed the grind and pull of this city to render itself, to pour through his hand into its own representation -which does not hobble our apprehension of the thing but honors it, since it is of the moment only, a singular clarity, and we understand, don't we, that stasis is always a lie? These only appear to be lilies, this conflation of smudges, but isn't the ruse lovely, matter got up in costume as itself? Isn't the dark carved now, a moment, around the body of the flower? New York's a clutch in which these lilies are held, let's say the drawing's subject is Manhattan's grip, the instant in which the city constellates itself around this vertical stroke risen from a blur of florist's paper: doesn't all of New York lean into the hard black lines defining stalk and leaf, a field of pressure and distortion, a storm billowing and forming itself now around these shapes? Isn't the city flower and collision? Trumpet, trumpet, and trumpet: now New York's a smear and chaos of lilies, a seized whir, burr and diminishment, a greased dark clank of lilies which contains in itself snowy throat and black crosshatched field of atmosphere, scent and explosion, tenderness and history, all that's leaning down into the delicate, nearly human skin, pressing with its impossible weight, despite which the mouth of the flower -quick and temporary as any gesture made by desire- remains open. Lustrous, blackening, open as if about to speak. Open- is that it? Out of these negotiations arises a sketchy, possible bloom, about to, going to, going to be, becoming open. And who could hope to draw that? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...READY FOR THE CANNERY by BERTON BRALEY TRANTER IN AMERICA by AUGUST KLEINZAHLER MEETING YOU AT THE PIERS by KENNETH KOCH FEBRUARY EVENING IN NEW YORK by DENISE LEVERTOV ON 52ND STREET by PHILIP LEVINE THREE POEMS FOR NEW YORK by JOSEPHINE MILES NEW YORK SUBWAY by HILDA MORLEY CHAMBER MUSIC: 14 by JAMES JOYCE |
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