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| John Walker Labyrinth III 1979-80 oil paint and wax on canvas Tate, London |
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| Patrick Caulfield Cream-glazed Pot 1979 screenprint Tate, London |
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| Michael Andrews Melanie and Me Swimming 1978-79 acrylic on canvas Tate, London |
AT THE BAMBI MOTEL
Walls the color of old plums, a "tapestry"
above the bed: 4 dogs playing cards,
smoking cigars. One cheats, aces tucked
in his vest, squints at the schnauzer's
royal flush and sighs. A wall-size mirror
doubles the room, doubles the double bed
into something immense, a mattress
for a troupe of acrobats.
Where are we? How did we get here?
And most of all, where's Bambi?
I wouldn't, couldn't have dreamed
up this place if I'd read true romance
magazines for a year. In room 8,
someone's having a row with someone
else. Cow! he accuses her.
Pipsqueak! You call this a honeymoon!
she yells back. Fighting
must have a titillating effect.
Silence for a minute. The pop of a cork.
And then of all things, giggling!
I bet somebody's made the front page
of The National Enquirer staying here.
What if our room's broken into by mistake!
What if the guy next door is a senator,
the girl Miss Panty Hose of 1968?
I chain the door shut, tape the keyhole
under your doubting gaze.
Your eyes glaze over, you begin your
impersonation of a sex maniac
who can't get his clothes undone.
Sin makes us blush like innocents
nevertheless . . .
I fall asleep
dreaming of Bambi. There's a forest fire!
I must get the dogs out! Intoxicated,
they dive out the window into a snowbank,
cards falling out of their clothes.
(Snow? An hour ago it was August!)
Room 8 lends the fire department champagne
to put out the flames. The senator's
distressed – Miss Panty Hose is more
undressed than I am. She grabs him
by the nose, making him say "cheese"
for the photos. Where will we stay now?
The dogs are grateful. One knows
a place down the road, Roxie's.
"They treat you real good there," he growls,
"pink lightbulbs and wait till you see
what's on their walls . . ."
– Elizabeth Spires (1978)
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| Bruce McLean Study towards The Object of the Exercise 1978 acrylic paint, wax crayon and collage on paper Tate, London |
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| Peter de Francia Disparates (Omnia Vincit Amor) 1977 oil and charcoal on canvas Tate, London |
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| Frank Auerbach Sketch from Sickert's Lady Martin ca. 1977-83 drawing Tate, London |
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| David Hockney My Parents 1977 oil on canvas Tate, London |
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| Keith Vaughan Ninth Assembly of Figures (Eldorado Banal) 1976 oil on canvas Tate, London |
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| Peter Milton Daylilies 1975 intaglio print Tate, London |
DESCRIPTION OF THE WILDERNESS
A blind black hunger swells
Like cysts upon the leaves,
And cunning crevices impel
The unresisting bee.
Fish pause, and circulate,
And spawn. Among the snarls
Of root and rock, in tunnels cut
By tooth and toe, the nervous prey
Transports fresh sacs of flesh
Down to the dirt's deep hives.
– Tom Disch (1977)
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| Ed Ruscha Miracle #64 1975 pastel Tate, London |
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| Dieter Roth Self Portrait at a Table 1973-76 oil and acrylic paint, food, plastic and paper on cardboard mounted on panel Tate, London |
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| Alice Neel Kitty Pearson 1973 oil on canvas Tate, London |
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| William Roberts The Art Gallery 1973 oil on canvas Tate, London |
THE WIVES OF MAFIOSI
Thinking to take on the power
of a dark suit lined with lead
of a man with a platinum mouth & knuckles of brass
of a bullet the color of a Ferrari
The wives of Mafiosi stay home
decanting the Chianti
like transparent blood.
They crochet spiders for the furniture.
They go to Confession.
They fill the ears of the priests
with mozzarella & nougat candy.
We too stay home
& dream of power.
We sacrifice the steakblood to the dishwasher.
We bring clear offerings of water to the plants.
We pray before the baby pictures.
We dream of swallowing bullets
& coupling with money.
We dream of transparent armor.
We imagine we want peace.
We imagine we are different
from the wives of Mafiosi.
– Erica Jong (1971)
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| Graham Sutherland Portrait of Aloys Senefelder 1971-72 lithograph Tate, London |
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| Mary Fedden Pot of Shells 1971 lithograph Tate, London |
DEEPLY MORBID
Deeply morbid deeply morbid was the girl who typed the letters
Always out of office hours running with her social betters
But when daylight and the darkness of the office closed about her
Not for this ah not for this her office colleagues came to doubt her
It was that look within her eye
Why did it always seem to say goodbye?
Joan her name was and at lunchtime
Solitary solitary
She would go and watch the pictures
In the National Gallery
All alone all alone
This time with no friend beside her
She would go and watch the pictures
All alone.
Will she leave her office colleagues
Will she leave her evening pleasures
Toil within a friendly bureau
Running later in her leisure?
All alone all alone
Before the pictures she seems turned to stone.
Close upon the Turner pictures
Closer than a thought may go
Hangs her eye and all the colours
Leap into a special glow
All for her, all alone
All for her, all for Joan.
First the canvas where the ocean
Like a mighty animal
With a really wicked motion
Leaps for sailors' funeral
Holds her panting. Oh the creature
Oh the wicked virile thing
With its skin of fleck and shadow
Stretching tightening over him.
Wild yet captured wild yet captured
By the painter, Joan is quite enraptured.
Now she edges from the canvas
To another loved more dearly
Where the awful light of purest
Sunshine falls across the spray,
There the burning coasts of fancy
Open to her pleasure lay.
All alone, all alone
Come away, come away
All alone.
Lady Mary, Lady Kitty
The Honourable Featherstonehaugh
Polly Tommy from the office
Which of these shall hold her now?
Come away, come away
All alone.
The spray reached out and sucked her in
It was a hardly noticed thing
That Joan was there and is not now
(Oh go and tell young Featherstonehaugh)
Gone away, gone away
All alone.
She stood up straight
The sun fell down
There was no more of London Town
She went upon the painted shore
And there she walks for ever more
Happy quite
Beaming bright
In a happy happy light
All alone.
They say she was a morbid girl, no doubt of it
And what befell her clearly grew out of it
But I say she's a lucky one
To walk for ever in that sun
And as I bless sweet Turner's name
I wish that I could do the same.
– Stevie Smith, from New Selected Poems (1972)
Other poems from the archives of Poetry (Chicago)