Art by rinehart & kroeppler
The Poet and The Painters April 26.
Comprising of a series of 18 expressive oil paintings by Vincent Rinehart and Karl Kroeppler, Atlanta area artists, to convey the look, feel and mood of poems written by Dana Gioia. As we wandered through the 18 poems by Dana, who is an internationally acclaimed and award-winning poet and critic, we seek to express our emotions by creating a story as it moves onto canvas. The use of lines, moody colors, emotional scenes, shapes and images allow the paintings to obtain a life of their own, extending beyond the work of Karl and Vince, where the viewer sees their own interpretation of the poems and paintings. Barbara Rinehart will present four sculptues of paintings. And, QR codes will allow viewers to listen to poems by Dana Gioia,
The Collaborative Process
Vince Rinehart www.vincentrinehartartist.com Marietta,, GA
Karl Gustav Kroeppler (https://kroeppler.weebly.com Woodstock, GA)
Dana Gioia (www.DanaGioia.com)
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DANA GIOIA The Poet
Dana Gioia is an award-winning poet and critic. He has published five celebrated volumes of poetry and three critical collections. For six years he served as Chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts. He is now the Judge Widney Professor of Poetry and Public Culture at the University of Southern California and served as the Poet Laureate of California. "The Poet and the Painter series has been much fun. It is strange to see my words turned into shapes and images. It reminds me of the experience I had of hearing a composer setting my words to music. My poems change into a new work of art." Visit "DanaGioia.com"
THE BURNING LADDER
Jacobnever climbed the ladderburning in his dream. Sleeppressed him like a stonein the dust, and whenhe should have risenlike a flame to jointhat choir, he was sickof traveling, and closedhis eyes to the Seraphimascending, unconsciousof the impossible distancesbetween their steps, missedthem mount the brilliantladder, slowly disappearinginto the scattered lightbetween the stars, sleptthrough it all, a stoneupon a stone pillow,shivering. Gravityalways greater than desire.
Jacobnever climbed the ladderburning in his dream. Sleeppressed him like a stonein the dust, and whenhe should have risenlike a flame to jointhat choir, he was sickof traveling, and closedhis eyes to the Seraphimascending, unconsciousof the impossible distancesbetween their steps, missedthem mount the brilliantladder, slowly disappearinginto the scattered lightbetween the stars, sleptthrough it all, a stoneupon a stone pillow,shivering. Gravityalways greater than desire.
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Sea Pebbles: An Elegy
My love, how time makes hardness shine.They come in every color, pure or mixed,gray-green of basalt, blood-soaked jasper, quartz,granite and feldspar, even bits of glass,smoothed by the patient jeweled of the tides.
Volcano-born, earthquake-quarried,shaven by glaciers, wind-carved, heat-cracked,stratified, speckled, bright in the wet surf-no two alike, all torn from the dry landtossed up in millions on this empty shore.
How small death seems among the rocks. It driftslight as a splintered bone the tide uncovers.It glints among the shattered oyster shells,gutted by gulls, bleached by salt and sun-the broken crockery of living things.
Cormorants glide across the quiet bay.A falcon watches from the ridge, indifferentto the burdens I have carried here.No point in walking farther, so I sit,hollow as driftwood, dead as any stone.
My love, how time makes hardness shine.They come in every color, pure or mixed,gray-green of basalt, blood-soaked jasper, quartz,granite and feldspar, even bits of glass,smoothed by the patient jeweled of the tides.
Volcano-born, earthquake-quarried,shaven by glaciers, wind-carved, heat-cracked,stratified, speckled, bright in the wet surf-no two alike, all torn from the dry landtossed up in millions on this empty shore.
How small death seems among the rocks. It driftslight as a splintered bone the tide uncovers.It glints among the shattered oyster shells,gutted by gulls, bleached by salt and sun-the broken crockery of living things.
Cormorants glide across the quiet bay.A falcon watches from the ridge, indifferentto the burdens I have carried here.No point in walking farther, so I sit,hollow as driftwood, dead as any stone.
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GOD ONLY KNOWS
if Bach's greatest work
was just an improvised
accompaniment
between two verses of a hymn,
one that stopped the burghers
squirming in their pews
and made them not only
listed to the organ in the loft
but actually hear the roof
unbend itself
and leave the church wide
open to a terrifying sky
which he had filled with angels
holding ledgers
for a roll call of the damned,
whom they would have named,
had not the congregation
started up the final chorus
and sung
to save their souls.
HOT SUMMER NIGHT
Let's go downtown. It's a hot
summer night.
Lover's are sitting in sidewalk cafes-
Breaking up, making up, hooking
up, cooking up
Plans for tonight that leave
them amazed.
Let's go downtown. It's a hot
summer night.
Let's not stay at home and get in a
fight.
Let's eat spicy food in a dark little
dive
And let our bodies know
we're alive.
Summer has come. The young
are on fire,
And every tattoo spells a word
for desire.
They're strolling as naked as
custom allows.
They never say later. They only
say now.
Let's live in the flesh and not on a
screen. Let's dress like people who want
to be seen.
Don't bring me home till the
dawn's early light.
Let's not waste this hot
summer night.
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Summer Storm
We stood on the rented patioWhile the party went on inside.You knew the groom from college.I was a friend of the bride.
We hugged the brownstone wall behind usTo keep our dress clothes dryAnd watched the sudden summer storm Floodlit against the sky.
The rain was like a waterfallOf brilliant beaded light,Cool and silent as the starsThe storm hid from the night.
To my surprise, you took my arm-A gesture you didn't explain-And we spoke in whispers, as if we twoMight imitate the rain.
Then suddenly the storm recededAs swiftly as it came.The doors behind us opened up.The hostess called your name.
I watched you merge into the group,Aloof and yet polite.We didn't speak another wordExcept to say good-night.
Why does that evening's memoryReturn with this night's storm-A party twenty years ago,Its disappointments warm?
There are so many might-have-beens,What-ifs that won't stay buried,Other cities, other jobs,Strangers we might have married.
And memory insists on piningFor places it never went,As if life would be happierJust by being different.
We stood on the rented patioWhile the party went on inside.You knew the groom from college.I was a friend of the bride.
We hugged the brownstone wall behind usTo keep our dress clothes dryAnd watched the sudden summer storm Floodlit against the sky.
The rain was like a waterfallOf brilliant beaded light,Cool and silent as the starsThe storm hid from the night.
To my surprise, you took my arm-A gesture you didn't explain-And we spoke in whispers, as if we twoMight imitate the rain.
Then suddenly the storm recededAs swiftly as it came.The doors behind us opened up.The hostess called your name.
I watched you merge into the group,Aloof and yet polite.We didn't speak another wordExcept to say good-night.
Why does that evening's memoryReturn with this night's storm-A party twenty years ago,Its disappointments warm?
There are so many might-have-beens,What-ifs that won't stay buried,Other cities, other jobs,Strangers we might have married.
And memory insists on piningFor places it never went,As if life would be happierJust by being different.
BALLAD: THE STARS ON SECOND AVENUE
I'd say it was the starsReminded me of you.But I can't see the starsFrom Second Avenue.The shimmer is just neonReflected in the rainFrom the little corner deliWhere memory comes with pain.
I'd say it was the moonThat made me lose my head.But I never saw the moonIn the window by our bed.It was just the streetlampShinning in the darkAbove the empty benchIn the empty park.
I'd say it was the wineThat eased by heavy soul.But I never take a drink.I never lose control.Maybe I should blame myself,Maybe I should blame you.The stars won't tell me anythingHere on Second Avenue.
I'd say it was the starsReminded me of you.But I can't see the starsFrom Second Avenue.The shimmer is just neonReflected in the rainFrom the little corner deliWhere memory comes with pain.
I'd say it was the moonThat made me lose my head.But I never saw the moonIn the window by our bed.It was just the streetlampShinning in the darkAbove the empty benchIn the empty park.
I'd say it was the wineThat eased by heavy soul.But I never take a drink.I never lose control.Maybe I should blame myself,Maybe I should blame you.The stars won't tell me anythingHere on Second Avenue.
EQUATIONS OF THE LIGHT
Turning the corner, we discovered itjust as the old wrought-iron lamps went on-a quiet, tree-lined street, only one block longresting between the noisy avenues.
The streetlamps splashed the shadows of the leavesacross the whitewashed brick, and each tall windowglowing through the ivy-decked facadepromised lives as perfect as the light.
Walking beneath the trees, we counted allthe high black doors of houses bolted shut.And yet we could have opened any door,entered any room the evening offered.
Or were we so deluded by the strange equations of the light, the vagrant windsearching the trees, that believed this briefconjunction of our separate lives was real?
It seemed that moment lingered like a ghost,a flicker in the air, smaller than a moth,a curl of smoke flaring from a match,haunting a world it could not touch or hear.
There should have been a greeting or a sign,the smile of a stranger, something beyondthe soft refusals of the summer airand children trading secrets on the steps.
Traffic bellowed from the avenue.Our shadows moved across the street's long walland at the end what else could we have donebut turn the corner back into our life?
Turning the corner, we discovered itjust as the old wrought-iron lamps went on-a quiet, tree-lined street, only one block longresting between the noisy avenues.
The streetlamps splashed the shadows of the leavesacross the whitewashed brick, and each tall windowglowing through the ivy-decked facadepromised lives as perfect as the light.
Walking beneath the trees, we counted allthe high black doors of houses bolted shut.And yet we could have opened any door,entered any room the evening offered.
Or were we so deluded by the strange equations of the light, the vagrant windsearching the trees, that believed this briefconjunction of our separate lives was real?
It seemed that moment lingered like a ghost,a flicker in the air, smaller than a moth,a curl of smoke flaring from a match,haunting a world it could not touch or hear.
There should have been a greeting or a sign,the smile of a stranger, something beyondthe soft refusals of the summer airand children trading secrets on the steps.
Traffic bellowed from the avenue.Our shadows moved across the street's long walland at the end what else could we have donebut turn the corner back into our life?
The Voyeur
... and watching her undress across the room,oblivious of him, watching as her slipfalls soundlessly and disappears in shadow,and the dim lamplight makes her curving frameseem momentarily both luminousand insubstantial - like the shadow of a clouddrifting across a hillside far away.
Watching her turn away, this slender ghost,this silhouette of a mystery, his wife,walk naked to her bath, the room around herso long familiar that it is, like him,invisible to her, he sees himselfsuspended in the branches by the window,entering this strange bedroom with his eyes.
Seen from the darkness, even the walls glow-a golden woman lights the amber air.He looks and aches not only for her touchbut for the secret that her presence brings.She is the moonlight, sovereign and detached.He is the shadow flattened on the pavement,the one whom locks and windows keep away.
But as he watches here is his own life.He is the missing man, the loyal husband,sitting in the room he craves to enter,surrounded by the flesh and furniture of home.He notices a cat curled on the bed.He hears a woman singing in the shower.The branches shake their dry leaves like alarms.
... and watching her undress across the room,oblivious of him, watching as her slipfalls soundlessly and disappears in shadow,and the dim lamplight makes her curving frameseem momentarily both luminousand insubstantial - like the shadow of a clouddrifting across a hillside far away.
Watching her turn away, this slender ghost,this silhouette of a mystery, his wife,walk naked to her bath, the room around herso long familiar that it is, like him,invisible to her, he sees himselfsuspended in the branches by the window,entering this strange bedroom with his eyes.
Seen from the darkness, even the walls glow-a golden woman lights the amber air.He looks and aches not only for her touchbut for the secret that her presence brings.She is the moonlight, sovereign and detached.He is the shadow flattened on the pavement,the one whom locks and windows keep away.
But as he watches here is his own life.He is the missing man, the loyal husband,sitting in the room he craves to enter,surrounded by the flesh and furniture of home.He notices a cat curled on the bed.He hears a woman singing in the shower.The branches shake their dry leaves like alarms.
PSALM OF THE HEIGHTSI.You don’t fall in love with Los AngelesUntil you’ve seen it from a distance after dark.Up in the heights of the Hollywood HillsYou can mute the sounds and find perspective.The pulsing anger of the traffic dissipates,And our swank unmanageable metropolis Dissolves with all its signage and its sewage— Until only the radiance remains. That’s when the City of Angels appears,Silent and weightless as a dancer’s dream. The boulevards unfold in brilliant lines.The freeways flow like shining rivers. The moving lights stretch into vastAnd secret shapes, invisible at street level.At the horizon, the city rises into sky,Our demi-galaxy brighter than the zodiac.II.Surely our destinies are written in this zodiac,Whose courses and conjunctions govern us.Look down and name our starry constellations—Wilshire, Olympic, Santa Monica.In speeding Comets or sleek Thunderbirds,We traveled the twelve Houses of the HeavensAscending Crenshaw, Sunset, or Imperial,Locked in our private worlds of lust or laughter.Who will cast the charts of our radiant sorrow,Or trace the secret transits of our joy?The traffic shimmers in its fixed trajectories,Dense and indifferent as nebulae.Though you resist the gaudy spectacle,You can’t escape the city’s sortilege.III.Move away, if you wish, to the white Sierras,Or huddle in the smoky canyons of Manhattan.You’ll miss the juvenescent rapture of LAWhere ecstasy cohabits with despair, Lascivious and fitful as a pair of lovers.Let someone else play grown-up. Here the soul sings like a car radio, and no oneAsks your age because we’re all immortal. Inhale the spices of the midnight air Drifting from Thai Town and Little Armenia.Here on the hilltop, the city whispers to you,“Come down and play in the traffic.Merge into the moving lights, our myriad,The luminous multitudes that surround you.Join their fiery orbit. Shine with us tonight.Where else can you become a star?”
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Cruising With The Beach Boys
So strange to hear that song again tonightTraveling on business in a rented carMiles from anywhere I've been before.And now a tune I haven't heard for years Probably not since it last left the chartsBack in L.A. in 1969. I can't believe I kmow the words by heart And can't think of a girl to blame them on.
Every lovesick summer has its song,And this one I pretended to despise,But if I was alone when it came on,I turned it up full-blast to sing along-A primal scream in croaky baritone,The notes all flat, the lyrics mostly slurred.No wonder I spent so much time aloneMaking the rounds in Dad's old Thunderbird.
Some nights I drove down to the beach to parkAnd walk along the railings of the pier.The water down below was cold and dark,The waves monotonous against the shore.The darkness and the mist, the midnight sea,A perfect setting for a boy like me,The Ceil B. DeMille of my self-pity.
I thought by now I'd left those nights behind,Lost like the girls that I could never get,Gone with the years, junked with that old T-Bird.But one old song, a stretch of empty road,Can open up a door and let them fallTumbling my throat for no reason at all,Bringing on tears shed only for myself.
So strange to hear that song again tonightTraveling on business in a rented carMiles from anywhere I've been before.And now a tune I haven't heard for years Probably not since it last left the chartsBack in L.A. in 1969. I can't believe I kmow the words by heart And can't think of a girl to blame them on.
Every lovesick summer has its song,And this one I pretended to despise,But if I was alone when it came on,I turned it up full-blast to sing along-A primal scream in croaky baritone,The notes all flat, the lyrics mostly slurred.No wonder I spent so much time aloneMaking the rounds in Dad's old Thunderbird.
Some nights I drove down to the beach to parkAnd walk along the railings of the pier.The water down below was cold and dark,The waves monotonous against the shore.The darkness and the mist, the midnight sea,A perfect setting for a boy like me,The Ceil B. DeMille of my self-pity.
I thought by now I'd left those nights behind,Lost like the girls that I could never get,Gone with the years, junked with that old T-Bird.But one old song, a stretch of empty road,Can open up a door and let them fallTumbling my throat for no reason at all,Bringing on tears shed only for myself.
Elegy For Vladimir De Pachmann
"How absurd," cried the pianist de Pachmann to reporters from the Minneapolis Dispatch,"that my talents or the talents of a Liszet were confined to so small a planetas the earth. How much more could we have done given the dimensions of a fixed star?"He began a prelude quietly, then stopped. "Once Chopin could play this well. Now only me."
When he brought his socks into the concert hall and dedicated that night's music to them,or relearned his repertoire at sixty-nine using only the fourth and fifth fingersof one hand, the critics thought his madness was theatrical, but the less learnedmembers of his audience, to who he talked while playing, knew the truth.
Porters and impresarios told of coming on him, alone in a hotel suite, his backcurved like monkey's, dancing and screeching in front of a dressing mirror,or giving concerts for the velvet furniture in his room, knocking it together afterwardsfor applause. "Dear friends," he whispered to it. "such love deserve an encore."
Now relegated to three short paragraphs in Grove's Dictionary of Musicand one out-of-pocket of Chopin, he appears only by schedulein a few selections broadcast on his birthday, music produced by rolls on a mechanical pianowhere no fingers touch the keys as each piece goes to it's predictable finale.
"How absurd," cried the pianist de Pachmann to reporters from the Minneapolis Dispatch,"that my talents or the talents of a Liszet were confined to so small a planetas the earth. How much more could we have done given the dimensions of a fixed star?"He began a prelude quietly, then stopped. "Once Chopin could play this well. Now only me."
When he brought his socks into the concert hall and dedicated that night's music to them,or relearned his repertoire at sixty-nine using only the fourth and fifth fingersof one hand, the critics thought his madness was theatrical, but the less learnedmembers of his audience, to who he talked while playing, knew the truth.
Porters and impresarios told of coming on him, alone in a hotel suite, his backcurved like monkey's, dancing and screeching in front of a dressing mirror,or giving concerts for the velvet furniture in his room, knocking it together afterwardsfor applause. "Dear friends," he whispered to it. "such love deserve an encore."
Now relegated to three short paragraphs in Grove's Dictionary of Musicand one out-of-pocket of Chopin, he appears only by schedulein a few selections broadcast on his birthday, music produced by rolls on a mechanical pianowhere no fingers touch the keys as each piece goes to it's predictable finale.
MEET ME AT THE LIGHTHOUSE
Meet me at the Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach,That shabby nightclub on its foggy pier.Let's aim for the summer of '71,When all our friends were young and immortal.
I'll pick up the cover charge, find us a table,And order a round of their watery drinks.Let's savor the smoke of that sinister century,Perfume of tobacco in the tangy salt air.
The crowd will be quiet--only ghosts at the bar--So you, old friend, won't feel out of place.You need a night out from the dim subdivision.Tell Mr. Bones you'll be back before dawn.
The club has booked the best talent in Tartarus.Gerry, Cannonball, Hampton, and Stan,With Chet and Art, those gorgeous greenhorns--The swinging-masters of our West Coast soul.
Let the All-Stars shine from that jerrybuilt stage.Let their high notes shimmer above the cold waves.Time and the tide are counting the beats.Death the collector is keeping the tab.
Meet me at the Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach,That shabby nightclub on its foggy pier.Let's aim for the summer of '71,When all our friends were young and immortal.
I'll pick up the cover charge, find us a table,And order a round of their watery drinks.Let's savor the smoke of that sinister century,Perfume of tobacco in the tangy salt air.
The crowd will be quiet--only ghosts at the bar--So you, old friend, won't feel out of place.You need a night out from the dim subdivision.Tell Mr. Bones you'll be back before dawn.
The club has booked the best talent in Tartarus.Gerry, Cannonball, Hampton, and Stan,With Chet and Art, those gorgeous greenhorns--The swinging-masters of our West Coast soul.
Let the All-Stars shine from that jerrybuilt stage.Let their high notes shimmer above the cold waves.Time and the tide are counting the beats.Death the collector is keeping the tab.
Corner Table
You tell me you are going to marry him.You knew almost at once he was the one.Your hands rest on the quilted tablecloth."Such clever hands," I used to say.I gave them names I never spoke aloud.
You tell me how you met and where you'll live.It's easier to watch your lips than listen.Your eyes flash in the candlelight like knives.The waiters drift by with their phantom meals.Tonight the dead are dining with the dead.
You twist the wineglass slowly in your hand.And I speak of other things. What matters mostMost often can't be said. Better to trustThe forms that hold our grief. We understandThis last mute touch that lingers for farewell.
You tell me you are going to marry him.You knew almost at once he was the one.Your hands rest on the quilted tablecloth."Such clever hands," I used to say.I gave them names I never spoke aloud.
You tell me how you met and where you'll live.It's easier to watch your lips than listen.Your eyes flash in the candlelight like knives.The waiters drift by with their phantom meals.Tonight the dead are dining with the dead.
You twist the wineglass slowly in your hand.And I speak of other things. What matters mostMost often can't be said. Better to trustThe forms that hold our grief. We understandThis last mute touch that lingers for farewell.
CALIFORNIA HILLS IN AUGUST
I can imagine someone who found
these fields unbearable, who climbed
the hillside in the heat, cursing the dust,
cracking the brittle weeds underfoot,
wishing for a few more trees for shade.
An Easterner especially, who would scorn
the meagerness of summer, the dry
twisted shapes of black elm,
scrub oak, the chaparral, a landscape
August has already drained of green.
One who would hurry over the clinging
thistle, foxtail, golden poppy,
knowing everything was just a weed,
unable to conceive that these trees
and sparce brown bushes were alive.
And hate the bright stillness of the moon
without wind, without motion,
the only other living thing
a hawk, hungry for prey, suspended
in the blinding, sunlit blue.
And yet how gentle it seems to someone
raised in a landscape short of rain -
the skyline of a hill broken by no more
trees than one can count, the grass,
the empty sky, the wish for water.
MEN AFTER WORK
Done with work, they are sitting by themselves
in coffeeshops or dinners, taking up the booths,
filling every other seat along the counter,
waiting for the menu, for the water,
for the girl to come and take their order,
always on the edge of words, almost without appetite,
knowing there is nothing on the menu that they want,
waiting patiently to ask for one
more refill of their coffee, surprised
that even its bitterness will not wake them up.
Still they savor it, holding each sip
lukewarm in their mouths, this last taste of evening.
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At The Crossroads
Here are the crossroads where old women comeUnder the quarter moon to cast their spells,And where young lovers meet to argue outThe secret terms of their surrender.
It is a place that each see differently-The salesman scouting, soldiers tramping home,The scholar napping by the riverbankWhile someone else's fortune drift downstream.
But if you stand at crossroads long enough,Most of the eager world comes strutting by-Businessmen, preachers, cats- all going somewhere,Even the Devil striking up a deal.
I used to wonder if they ever got there.Be careful here in choosing where to turn.You learn a lot by staying in one placeBut never how the story truly ends.
Here are the crossroads where old women comeUnder the quarter moon to cast their spells,And where young lovers meet to argue outThe secret terms of their surrender.
It is a place that each see differently-The salesman scouting, soldiers tramping home,The scholar napping by the riverbankWhile someone else's fortune drift downstream.
But if you stand at crossroads long enough,Most of the eager world comes strutting by-Businessmen, preachers, cats- all going somewhere,Even the Devil striking up a deal.
I used to wonder if they ever got there.Be careful here in choosing where to turn.You learn a lot by staying in one placeBut never how the story truly ends.
MONEY
Money, the long green,
cash, stash, rhino, jack
or just plain dough.
Chock it up, fork it over,
shell it out. Watch it
burn holes through pockets.
To be made of it! To have it
to burn! Greenbacks, double eagles,
megabucks and Ginnie Maes.
It greases the palm, feathers the nest,
holds heads above water,
makes both ends meet.
Money breeds money.
Gathering interest, compounded daily.
Always in circulation.
Money. You don't know where it's been,
but you put it where your mouth is.
And it talks.
MARKETING DEPARTMENT TRIO
Classical music's
Gotta go.
All the surveys
Tell us so.
Brahms is boring.
Bach is dreary.
Morning drive time
Should be cheery.
Grieg is stale.
Mozart moldy.
Give us this day
Our golden oldie.
Tchaikovsky's pathetic.
Schubert's a nerd.
And once is too much
For Beethoven's Third.
The past is over.
Let's clean house.
Out with Verdi.
Good-bye Strauss.
Curtains for opera.
Unstring the cello.
Make the music
Soft and Mellow.
Whether you're driving
Or trying to score,
Lean back, relax
While our ratings soar.
Mile after mile
Commute with a smile.
So bye-bye Beethoven,
And don't touch the dial!
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