In this Olson was right:
it’s the syllable that matters
as it, fettering the breath in,
makes it lightsome,
roomy.
Writing about him, a younger
poet tells us, “Recently I’ve
been staring
at the New
York etchings of John Sloan,
‘an incorrigible widow-watcher.’
And I teeter
over widow,
like it, wish to believe in it,
but my reason adjudges it
nothing but a misprint.
Yet
that word, since his etchings
mirror many women, doing
what they had to,
may well
have hit the bull’s eye. Surely
widows would have filled
a good part
of the hours
he spent at the speckled, rear-
window of his 23rd Street
studio staring
into fusty
tenement rooms, the railroad
apartments facing on his alley,
no doubt places
suitable
for widows, life’s left-overs,
and those too poor to ever
get started,
at last mattering
in his look as in the loving
stroke bit deeply, surely
into his plates.
-
Widow-watching
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 5 Number 2, on page 47
Copyright © 1986 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com