Guggenheim and Pollock (edit 3 -River, JohnS, busker)
My dad was Mr. Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
his children endlessly spinning
those museum shop color wheels;
overlapping hues were caught
and released, headwaters
and destinations blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
Wright’s New York ramps and open air
left us unprepared for Peggy’s Venice.
My sister and I share a focaccia breakfast
in the sunlit sculpture garden, the prelude
to a well-loved home packed with a life
of choice, astute collections at every turn.
Then ahead of us a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
Flooded by Pollock I swim,
from piece to piece a crest and dive,
at the end a life fully felt.
Guggenheim and Pollock (edit 2 -River, JohnS)
My dad was Mr. Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
with a family pass to the city’s
network of art museums,
his children endlessly spinning
those gift shop color wheels.
Layers of primaries overlapped
as changing hues were caught
and released, headwaters
and destinations blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
Grown enough to travel,
my sister and I share a sunlit
focaccia breakfast and the breeze
in Peggy’s garden, a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Wright’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s sharp focus.
Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls,
allowing them to imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
Immersed in Pollock, my mind swims
as layers of emotion surface,
from piece to piece a crest and dive,
at the end a life fully felt.
Guggenheim and Pollock edit 1
Born into Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
weekend family pass to the city’s
Museum of Modern Art.
Giftshop colorwheels spinners
swirled layers of primaries shifted
endlessly, caught and released,
headwaters and destinations
blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
A sunlit focaccia breakfast
in Peggy’s breezy sculpture garden
is a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Guggenheim’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s focus.
Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls
allowing them to imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming
as everything I’ve ever felt surfaces,
a crest and dive from piece to piece,
at the end a life exhausted.
Peggy and Jackson in Venice (from NaPM)
My dad was Mr. Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls
with a family pass to New York's
Museum of Modern Art.
I grew up endlessly spinning
those gift shop color wheels,
accustomed to flying shapes
in the air, puzzling them together
then rearranging.
But I never got Pollock.
Just. Couldn't. Get it.
Then I visited Peggy, what she left.
Eating morning focaccia
in her sculpture garden in
preparation for her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Still holding the remnants of a life of choice, clearly a home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the covered walls
but all works new to me,
making sure to let them imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming in emotions, all of them, changing
from piece to piece, building,
piling on until by the end
I've lived it all.
05-11-2026, 05:06 PM (This post was last modified: 05-11-2026, 05:06 PM by RiverNotch.)
(05-09-2026, 08:56 PM)wasellajam Wrote: Guggenheim and Pollock
Born into Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
weekend family pass to the city’s
Museum of Modern Art.
I'd prefer a fuller sentence for this, just to be clearer:
(I) born into Midcentury Modern, Danish furniture and art covered walls with a weekend pass to the city's Museum of Modern Art.
Giftshop colorwheels spinners
swirled layers of primaries shifted
endlessly, caught and released,
headwaters and destinations
blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
Lovely image, senseless sentence. Unsure how to correct---the earlier version is definitely too mechanical. Maybe:
(A) spinner of gift shop color wheels, swirling layers of primaries that shifted endlessly, I caught and released headwaters and destinations blurred and fluid, only Pollock kept his distance.
A sunlit focaccia breakfast
in Peggy’s breezy sculpture garden
is a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal. Kinda prefer the narrative clarity of the previous version, at least for this passage's start.
Then I visited Peggy, what she left, a sunlit focaccia breakfast (surrounded by statues) the prelude to her palazzo on the Canal---
Guggenheim’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s focus. Maybe a little confusing, since Peggy's also a Guggenheim.
New York's ramps and open air had left me unprepared.
Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls, Comma here.
allowing them to imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming
as everything I’ve ever felt surfaces, The two "as"s are a little clumsy.
a crest and dive from piece to piece,
at the end a life exhausted.
Maybe:
As I walk the line, I'm swimming, and everything I've ever felt crests and dives from piece to piece, at the end a life exhausted.
The last two stanzas, though, they're a definite improvement from the earlier version.
(05-09-2026, 08:56 PM)wasellajam Wrote: Guggenheim and Pollock
Born into Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
weekend family pass to the city’s
Museum of Modern Art.
Giftshop colorwheels spinners
swirled layers of primaries shifted
endlessly, caught and released,
headwaters and destinations
blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
A sunlit focaccia breakfast
in Peggy’s breezy sculpture garden
is a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Guggenheim’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s focus.
Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls
allowing them to imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming
as everything I’ve ever felt surfaces,
a crest and dive from piece to piece,
at the end a life exhausted.
Peggy and Jackson in Venice (from NaPM)
My dad was Mr. Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls
with a family pass to New York's
Museum of Modern Art. I like this version.
I grew up endlessly spinning
those gift shop color wheels,
accustomed to flying shapes
in the air, puzzling them together
then rearranging.
But I never got Pollock. But I didn't (couldn't) get Pollock. You will later.
Just. Couldn't. Get it. I'd skip this.
Then I visited Peggy, what she left.
Eating morning focaccia
in her sculpture garden in
preparation for her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal. Prefer the new version
Still holding the remnants of a life of choice, clearly a home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the covered walls
but all works new to me,
making sure to let them imprint. Prefer the new version
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming in emotions, all of them, changing
from piece to piece, building,
piling on until by the end
I've lived it all. This version.
Thanks, Peggy, for the gift of Jackson.
(NaPM)
I preferred the first version with the exception of two stanzas. Can't really define why, it just feels more direct and personal. I've put a couple of comments on the first version.
River and John, thanks so much for taking your time with this. "Lovely image, senseless sentence." made me lol, thanks. I'll take some time with both critiques and both versions and see if I can come up with a better third.
Well, I've given this one another try. It was fun to work with two sometimes conflicting critiques, thanks River and John. Still have some spots I'm unsure of and as always I'm unsure if my punctuation makes sense, any help always appreciated.
This is coming along nicely, Ella.
My only concern is the first two lines of S4, they disorient me, taking me out of Venice, back to NY briefly and then back to Venice. Could they be dropped without losing anything important?
This is coming along nicely, Ella.
My only concern is the first two lines of S4, they disorient me, taking me out of Venice, back to NY briefly and then back to Venice. Could they be dropped without losing anything important?
Great point, I'm sure I can edit that somehow. Thanks for reading the edit and taking the time to comment, much appreciated.
My dad was Mr. Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls, with a family pass to the city’s network of art museums, his children endlessly spinning
those gift shop color wheels. ... Four lines is too long to tell the highlighted section. Two would be better. The reader loses interest. Layers of primaries overlapped as changing hues were caught and released, headwaters and destinations blurred and fluid. ... Again, too wordy.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
Grown enough to travel,
my sister and I share a sunlit
focaccia breakfast and the breeze
in Peggy’s garden, a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Wright’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s sharp focus.
Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls,
allowing them to imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses. ... This is a nice setup Immersed in Pollock, my mind swims as layers of emotion surface, from piece to piece a crest and dive, at the end a life fully felt. ... Too many words. I don't like 'immersed in Pollock'
Guggenheim and Pollock edit 1
Born into Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
weekend family pass to the city’s
Museum of Modern Art.
Giftshop colorwheels spinners
swirled layers of primaries shifted
endlessly, caught and released,
headwaters and destinations
blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
A sunlit focaccia breakfast
in Peggy’s breezy sculpture garden
is a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Guggenheim’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s focus.
Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls
allowing them to imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming
as everything I’ve ever felt surfaces,
a crest and dive from piece to piece,
at the end a life exhausted.
Peggy and Jackson in Venice (from NaPM)
My dad was Mr. Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls
with a family pass to New York's
Museum of Modern Art.
I grew up endlessly spinning
those gift shop color wheels,
accustomed to flying shapes
in the air, puzzling them together
then rearranging.
But I never got Pollock.
Just. Couldn't. Get it.
Then I visited Peggy, what she left.
Eating morning focaccia
in her sculpture garden in
preparation for her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Still holding the remnants of a life of choice, clearly a home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the covered walls
but all works new to me,
making sure to let them imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming in emotions, all of them, changing
from piece to piece, building,
piling on until by the end
I've lived it all.
Thanks, Peggy, for the gift of Jackson.
Hi ella - I think the poem needs to be distilled down to half its length to hold the reader's interest.
My dad was Mr. Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls, with a family pass to the city’s network of art museums, his children endlessly spinning
those gift shop color wheels. ... Four lines is too long to tell the highlighted section. Two would be better. The reader loses interest. Layers of primaries overlapped as changing hues were caught and released, headwaters and destinations blurred and fluid. ... Again, too wordy.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
Grown enough to travel,
my sister and I share a sunlit
focaccia breakfast and the breeze
in Peggy’s garden, a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Wright’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s sharp focus.
Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls,
allowing them to imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses. ... This is a nice setup Immersed in Pollock, my mind swims as layers of emotion surface, from piece to piece a crest and dive, at the end a life fully felt. ... Too many words. I don't like 'immersed in Pollock'
Guggenheim and Pollock edit 1
Born into Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
weekend family pass to the city’s
Museum of Modern Art.
Giftshop colorwheels spinners
swirled layers of primaries shifted
endlessly, caught and released,
headwaters and destinations
blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.
A sunlit focaccia breakfast
in Peggy’s breezy sculpture garden
is a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Guggenheim’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s focus.
Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls
allowing them to imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming
as everything I’ve ever felt surfaces,
a crest and dive from piece to piece,
at the end a life exhausted.
Peggy and Jackson in Venice (from NaPM)
My dad was Mr. Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls
with a family pass to New York's
Museum of Modern Art.
I grew up endlessly spinning
those gift shop color wheels,
accustomed to flying shapes
in the air, puzzling them together
then rearranging.
But I never got Pollock.
Just. Couldn't. Get it.
Then I visited Peggy, what she left.
Eating morning focaccia
in her sculpture garden in
preparation for her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Still holding the remnants of a life of choice, clearly a home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the covered walls
but all works new to me,
making sure to let them imprint.
Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming in emotions, all of them, changing
from piece to piece, building,
piling on until by the end
I've lived it all.
Thanks, Peggy, for the gift of Jackson.
Hi ella - I think the poem needs to be distilled down to half its length to hold the reader's interest.
Thanks so much for reading and commenting, I'll try a really pared down version and see how it goes, half is a challenge.
So, I've pared it down by a third, shifted some lines, I think it's still in tact. For L1 I've tried a colon and an em dash then reverted to the safety of the comma. Critiques welcomed, I'm never quite sure if I've sharpened something or killed the poor thing. Thanks, all.
Thanks, all.