The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit
John Singer Sargent (1882)
The MFA
John Singer Sargent (1882)
The MFA
Three Daughters, Pt. Ⅰ
Stand here, the man tells us. Point your toe like this.
No—a little to the right. Perfect. All right.
He sets up his easel and peers out, owlish, dabbing.
Hmmm. Not qui—yes, all right.
He puts me in darkness, against the big blue-patterned vase.
I hardly touch it, because if it cracks I might dissolve. Or calcify,
And they’ll prop me against the wall and let me grow dusty.
Jane tugs on my dress. Stop that, he says. You must remain still.
Daddy said, he’ll paint your picture. He’s very good. And we’ll hang it
On the wall, so I can always remember your faces.
The painter turns my face away, with Jane’s hanging
Moonlike in the dark.
Isa is very still. Her toe poses, her arms rest,
But I can see them gripping the back of her dress.
Julia, who keeps forgetting
To look at the artist. She whispers to her dolly,
Walks her across the carpet.
Julia scuffles, draws her toes out of their
Forward-back pose, oscillates them like a pendulum.
Yes, alright, he says. But slowly, please.
Julia leans, bounces dolly on Isa’s stone foot,
And back to place.
Isa bursts.
Open-mouthed and out pours a tension-hardened giggle,
Yes, that’s it, he says. That’s right.
But quickly, her eyes dart, mouth clamps again, stiffens.
I let my back faintly touch the cold porcelain.
And so I sink.
Jane’s face still glimmers wraith-like.
Three Daughters, Pt. ⅠⅠ
Daddy shows us the painting
He is prouder than the artist, beaming redly.
We look like a deer in headlights, I think.
Jane is a ghost, and I am a piece of furniture.
Daddy is happy with it. He boasts to his friends,
Look at the light here. Those vases were so expensive.
We’re old friends, you know, we paint together.
Daddy, I ask, didn’t you want to see our faces?
He gazes at the painting fondly, and his head never turns.
As the artist was leaving, he hovered a hand
Over Julia’s head, gazed at us, and his eyes
Crinkled a bit like parchment.
He has caught the curl at the top of Isa’s head,
And my lean against the vase is as fragile as ever.
The artist has done something strange, though,
He has filled in the little tug, like Jane is trying to pull me
To face the light.
Stand here, the man tells us. Point your toe like this.
No—a little to the right. Perfect. All right.
He sets up his easel and peers out, owlish, dabbing.
Hmmm. Not qui—yes, all right.
He puts me in darkness, against the big blue-patterned vase.
I hardly touch it, because if it cracks I might dissolve. Or calcify,
And they’ll prop me against the wall and let me grow dusty.
Jane tugs on my dress. Stop that, he says. You must remain still.
Daddy said, he’ll paint your picture. He’s very good. And we’ll hang it
On the wall, so I can always remember your faces.
The painter turns my face away, with Jane’s hanging
Moonlike in the dark.
Isa is very still. Her toe poses, her arms rest,
But I can see them gripping the back of her dress.
Julia, who keeps forgetting
To look at the artist. She whispers to her dolly,
Walks her across the carpet.
Julia scuffles, draws her toes out of their
Forward-back pose, oscillates them like a pendulum.
Yes, alright, he says. But slowly, please.
Julia leans, bounces dolly on Isa’s stone foot,
And back to place.
Isa bursts.
Open-mouthed and out pours a tension-hardened giggle,
Yes, that’s it, he says. That’s right.
But quickly, her eyes dart, mouth clamps again, stiffens.
I let my back faintly touch the cold porcelain.
And so I sink.
Jane’s face still glimmers wraith-like.
Three Daughters, Pt. ⅠⅠ
Daddy shows us the painting
He is prouder than the artist, beaming redly.
We look like a deer in headlights, I think.
Jane is a ghost, and I am a piece of furniture.
Daddy is happy with it. He boasts to his friends,
Look at the light here. Those vases were so expensive.
We’re old friends, you know, we paint together.
Daddy, I ask, didn’t you want to see our faces?
He gazes at the painting fondly, and his head never turns.
As the artist was leaving, he hovered a hand
Over Julia’s head, gazed at us, and his eyes
Crinkled a bit like parchment.
He has caught the curl at the top of Isa’s head,
And my lean against the vase is as fragile as ever.
The artist has done something strange, though,
He has filled in the little tug, like Jane is trying to pull me
To face the light.
by Sylvia Woodbury, Class of 2023
So Long
Train Station
Jeff Rowland |
Standing on the cold platform, watching you go,
Far away. The rigid bottom of the scuffed black shoes hitting the ramp, Taking you away from me. You enter the train, as our eyes met once more. You said you loved me, but you wanted to see the world, So I said go. The bell is rung, by the man who only seems like he wants to go,go,go. The wheels turn and your figure becomes a memory. So long. Tears fall, no feeling left. My feet become their own, and take me to the car. Flabbergasted by your actions, part of me becomes follicles of air. So as you go, I only wish you the best But if you opened your eyes, you would’ve seen you were my world, and maybe I would’ve been yours. |
by Emma Botelho, Class of 2022
(Haphazardly tape on)
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Untitled study for Untitled (policeman))
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by Nathaniel Waterman, Class of 2022
Freedom
A Sestina
A Sestina
|
The Poppy Field near Argenteuil,
Claude Monet (1873) Musée d’Orsay, Paris |
Interior Window of Schloss Kirchberg,
Paul Kauzmann (1874) |
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The field is open.
It feels like a dream. A chill in the air. Now I am safe, Running free. The flowers whisper. The trees whisper. I see a door open, A bird flying free. That is my dream, Safe, Floating through the air. There is a chill in the air. I can hear it whisper. Are we safe Out here in the open? In my dream, I felt free. Maybe we are free. I breath in cold air. Maybe it was a dream, Just a whisper. Here in the open, We are safe. |
I am safe
But not free. Outside, I see a parasol open, A bird in the air, And the trees as they whisper. But I can only dream. In my dream, I was safe To whisper. Outside and free, Feeling the cool air, Pushing the doors open. The flowers open. The birds fly through the air. They all want to be free. |
by Suzanne Silver, Class of 2023
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C’est La Meilleure Vie
Come one, come all! It’s the 1880s in Paris Every dream is captured here, vous saisez, Il y a tout! Everybody is coming to the Chat Noir. See, the poster, the display, Le chat perches on the red banner. Look at his bristling fur! The yellow globes of his malevolent eyes, And the curvature of his sarcastic tail, The perk of his whiskers prick the air. Absinthe and abject misery, but oui, C’est la vie, c’est de l’art! All the feelings, here, Look at the dansers, hear the music, Pouring like wine! Le chat, il sait! The tempo swings, can you hear le concert The scents permeate, La Tour thrusts into the sky! See the whirling dress and coquettish eyes, The heady mixture of parfum and smoke (Also piss and cheap beer) See, the cat is fier, proud, His torso elongates and boasts his velvet coat, Claws sharp-edged. Look at his smirk! Le chat noir! |
Le Chat Noir
Théophile Steinlen (1881) Le Chat Noir Collection 
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by Sylvia Woodbury, Class of 2023
My Florist
A Pantoum
A Pantoum
Young Woman with Peonies
Frédéric Bazille (1870), Oil on Canvas
The National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.
Frédéric Bazille (1870), Oil on Canvas
The National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.
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Her fingers trembled gently against the flower’s thin little stem
Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones Because they had punched and kicked until she could no longer cough up phlegm And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones Every other time she had arranged the blooms’s rose cousins, the whites of her teeth shone bright And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones And that the fact her lover might not wake was keeping her up at night Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones Still the blossom heard her heart beating much too fast And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones The pursed lips from the treasured happiness she had thought would last Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones The blossoms she picked out told of her love for her And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones Yet it also knew the love for her girlfriend would never deter Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones She would visit the hospital, the flower’s vase in her right hand And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones Yet it smiled when it saw, at the bottom of his vase, a slim silver band Usually so joyful yet now her face was carved of stones The blossom saw that she would hate those men until her very last breath And so the flower knew she could still hear the cracking of her bones Because the prejudiced had beat her girlfriend almost to her death The blossom saw that she would hate those men until her very last breath Because they had punched her and kicked until she could no longer cough up phlegm Because the prejudiced had beat her girlfriend almost to her death Her fingers trembled gently against the flower’s thin little stem |
by Kaitlin Wiebe, Class of 2023
16 Images Generated by an Artificial Intelligence
A Palindrome
A Palindrome
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Images beautiful and perfect, melted, reborn into abominations, mere rearranging.
Masterpieces into mixes, art uninteresting. Better, wasn't it – humans, not machines, making art? NO. ART-MAKING MACHINES, NOT HUMANS. IT WASN'T BETTER. UNINTERESTING ART MIXES INTO MASTERPIECES. REARRANGING MERE ABOMINATIONS INTO REBORN, MELTED, PERFECT AND BEAUTIFUL IMAGES. |
by Nathaniel Waterman, Class of 2022
Letter from Me to You
Fire Escape Collapses
Stanley Forman (1975) |
When I reached the ground,
They say I landed on you. The softness of your Broken flesh slowing my fall. The dust cloaked, choked and settled. I don’t remember, But I dream of falling at night. I wake up so suddenly. Is that maybe what it is, To die? When you hit, was it? What I remember: Momma crying loud for you. A faint impression: You flew down like an angel, Like Icarus piercing earth. Don’t worry, it was Fast and over in a blink. It hurt a litle, But your nightmares drag on, and It’s not like that at all. It’s okay, forget. You don’t have to keep it all, Just take me and you Without everything else, just Us together in the flat. We used to play there, When your Momma was at work. With your plastic truck. I would rumble out vroom, vroom Like your Momma did for me. |
by Sylvia Woodbury, Class of 2023