at last have some small works of art,
some short poems, short pieces of music
[. . .] some intimate, low-voiced, and delicate things
in our mostly huge and roaring, glaring world?"
~ Elizabeth Bishop ~
`
Painting of Breakfast by Jessie Willcox Smith"Breakfast Perspective
you can bet that if oatmeal was bigger than us, he said,
we'd be breakfast cereal in a minute"
Brian Andreas (b. 1956)
American writer, painter, sculptor, publisher,
and creator of StoryPeople
*********************************
Some Days
Some days I put the people in their places at the table,
bend their legs at the knees,
if they come with that feature,
and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs.
All afternoon they face one another,
the man in the brown suit,
the woman in the blue dress,
perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved.
But other days, I am the one
who is lifted up by the ribs,
then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouse
to sit with the others at the long table.
Very funny,
but how would you like it
if you never knew from one day to the next
if you were going to spend it
striding around like a vivid god,
your shoulders in the clouds,
or sitting down there amidst the wallpaper,
staring straight ahead with your little plastic face
Billy Collins (b. 1941)
Poet Laureate of the United States, 2001 - 2003
New York State Poet, 2004-2006
***********************************
I find this topic so intriguing -- the dollhouse, the little dolls, the shift in perspective from the miniature to the gigantic -- I could write a book about it.
Oh, that's right, I already did:
THE MINIATURE BODY OF THE DOLL AS SUBJECT AND OBJECT
You can read more about my book
on The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
Just happened to come across this poem, which is a lot like the Billy Collins poem:
ReplyDeleteA DIALOGUE WITH MY DAUGHTER
THROUGH THE WINDOW OF HER DOLLHOUSE
“The days never end, but people end, right?”
My daughter asks me this today. Dazed
by her question, my mind goes blank. I stare.
Then I say, “Yes, people end. All people end
when they’re old. It’s called death. Days never
end, though, because days are not people
who have blood and bones and skin and…” “Never
mind,” she says, going back to the people
in her dollhouse, bending their arms, the right
leg, the left leg, to seat each one in a chair.
But this explanation will not be the end
of it. I know there will be other days,
tomorrow, perhaps, when she will take me unaware
with “Why do people end? Will Mommy end?
Will you end? Will I end?” So I’ll have to get it right.
I’ll have to clear my throat, sigh as wise people
sigh before I say, “Emily, you must never
doubt that God made people end to fill the endless days
in Heaven.” Then she’ll ask about Heaven, and right
away I’ll be in trouble because I’ll never
be convinced about a place where people
have wings and play harps, a place without days
and nights, or of just one day without end.
Even if satisfied with that, she’ll want to know where
it is and about God and what gives God the right
to make us do anything he pleases, as though people
were dolls and the world a dollhouse. At my wit’s end,
I’ll probably blurt out something I’ll regret for days,
such as, “God’s like a person, but we really can’t compare
God to a person because God, you know, will never
end as people do.” To which she’ll say, “So the days
are like God then because the days don’t end
either, right dad?” I will smile in despair.
I will smile and nod and hope she never
asks again. I will watch her play with her people,
watch her bend their wooden heads to the left and the right.
by J.R. Solonche
—from Rattle #25, Summer 2006
https://www.rattle.com/tag/jr-solonche/