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Card Players at the Met

The men sit,
Solid as Buddha,
holding fate
in their hands.
Each stroke
of the renegade
Frenchman’s brush
locks into the next
so the world,
even if inverted,
remains fastened
to the woven
cloth, and the act
of painting is
one with that
moment and this,
in a time when
reality seems to
dissolve into
clouds of E’s and I’s,
artifacts of immersion
in that place and time
rest in a deck
of painted cards
that are not cards
in that most
truthful of lies.

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Poem in response to a review in The New Yorker of Cezanne’s Card Players at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art

Tags

cezanne, poem metropolitan, museum, players, response, review

Comments

  • 1keithsart
    1keithsartover 3 years ago

    Excellent piece.

  • Thanks, Keith : )

    – bluerabbit

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