I was a young man
From the heart of the Midwest
And was not long out of college
When I visited the great metropolis of New York City
For the very first time.
I was, of course,
Thrilled with everything,
From the Met to the subways,
From the Village to Broadway.
One day I visited
The Museum of Modern Art
And spent an afternoon
Going from famous painting
To famous painting,
Probably more impressed by their fame
Than the quality of composition and brush stroke,
And even more impressed by the fact
That just a little while ago
I was a provincial hick from Nebraska
But now I had lost my virginity
And been transformed
Into a cosmopolitan bon vivant
Strolling through a magnificent museum
And conversing
With some of the greatest works of art
In the world.
As closing time approached
I headed for one last gallery
And rounded the corner
Into a darkened room
With a light shining on one wall
Where a huge painting was mounted,
A black and white and gray
Explosion on canvas
Of raw, primal power
That I had read much about
And discussed in classes
And was now alone with
Face to face.
Guernica.
Picasso’s response to the Nazi bombing
Of the town of Guernica
During the anti-fascist war in Spain.
A mass of bodies and body parts,
Faces contorted in mute howls,
A severed arm holding a broken sword.
Guernica:
Fascist barbarity.
Unspeakable savagery.
Horrific carnage.
Guernica:
Madness.
Depravity.
Evil.
Guernica:
Gaza.
