maggie goren writer



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AMSTERDAM (Hot July, 2005)

Vondelpark has its magpies too,
and litterbugs and men
with tattooed arms and legs,
a chap peeing in the bushes,
bikes and cameras galore
and sore, sunburnt bellies and busts.

We are a stones-throw,
pigeon’s coo,
from art lovers’ lusts –
the Ryjks Museum,
Vincent’s holy shrine,
the Staedlijk, closed for
overdue refurbishment,
its ‘moderns’ under dust covers
while ‘would-be-goods’ exhibit
elsewhere guns and crap and snot
and old pop art
for lack of skill and shine
and ‘lust for life’…
they should be so lucky
for God’s sake…

perhaps not!

There seems a calm here,
easy-going charm,
a sky that’s not oppressed
with too much traffic noise and smoke –
far cry from the grime
beneath the nails,
the sucked in cheeks,
the pouting mouths and
deep, dark hungry eyes
of the ‘Potato Eaters’ –
masterstroke of a man
with belly full enough
but little hope of
attracting attention.

There seems a calm here –
quite a treat –
despite the daffy giggles
of schoolgirls lying on
the grass in Vondelpark
while summer lasts:

his ‘image’ lingers
and the heat:
a storm’s predictable,
grumbles even in my mind –
nothing to mention really –
yet in my heart, Vincent,
a curious missed beat.


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