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| The City by George Grosz oil on canvas 1916/17 Thyssen-Bornemisza Collection, Madrid, Spain |
This poem is the work of a collective group of surrealist poets who worked together a long, long time ago, in a town about fifty miles outside of New York City (the Mecca). It has pathos, passion and sorrow -- wrapped in ambiguous characters, and awkward symbols.
(with respects to El Grande, Robert Hughes, and the late and great John Lennon)
Near docile Green Hills and gentle, lapping Sweet Sound
Lies a land in which artists and writers Abound,
It is, as you know, an Ambiguous Region
Of which Sages and Analysts all ponder in legion,
Oh, Children, Kind Strangers, and Interested Lecherous,
Oh hear my Sad Tale of the True and the Treacherous --
Hear the Terrible Toils of that Strange Threatened Land,
Where all who exist heave a Ponderous Hand,
Oh it's not very Good, but it's not very Bad, (Chorus)
And lately they tell me that I should now add,
That it's being called by folk Far and folk Near,
The Suburbiad, an Epithet, they've now come to Fear.
Behold, Swelling Mortgage of artist and writer,
Whose Taxes Increaseth, and never grow lighter,
Where Debits Expand and grow Large in the Night,
Whilst they protest in anguish,
Their Middle-Class Plight.
Why, it's here that they play at the Noble Savage
Whilst their Work and their Art -- Suburbiad does Ravage.
Oh there in that Region of Nether and Edge,
With lots of dense rock we hear they call ledge,
There's Fury and Fire all going Amuck,
Why, they recently boasted a mayor called Schmuck.
Oh it's there, in that fabled Edge-City of Bad
You know it, I know it -- The Suburbiad.
Oh could we, oh would we, just Move to the City,
With Patrons and Dealers even slightly more shitty?
It's bad for the Kiddies, they Rant and they Scream,
Why it's Here I hold on to my Perilous Dream,
Of winning the Kudos, Recognition and Praises,
Of the Curators' Art Squad, in all of their phases.
What's this, an Uproar, a Cry that we hear,
Oh no, could it be, an assault to the ear,
It grows now -- A voice, a Sad Sob, and a Whine?
We hear Loud the Chorus, sung with Venomous Brine,
The neglectful Art Critics of Gotham the Great.
Who look with Disdain on their downcast, Sad Throng,
While writing words Mighty, Derisive and Long,
Of those Legions of Masters, with Moxie, who Strain,
Whose efforts give writers Persnickety Pain.
Oh the artists and poets and writers and dreamers, (Chorus)
Oh the seekers, the canny, the nefarious schemers,
How they long for the Fame,
And the Glory Galore,
But they hang their artwork in a grocery store,
Or sometimes, with luck and appreciative Thanks,
They place it in Storefronts, or even in Banks.
What's this, they cry out, with Anguish they Scream,
To all the great, Visiting Panels Esteemed?
Oh look at my work, I tell you, I mean,
That It came to me once in a Sexual Dream,
Oh come, oh, Please come, to Antique Yale and Town,
Please take a look, oh please, please, come on round,
Cry Big Bird and Little Bird, whilst dreaming of Rube,
Who looks down from Sculpture Heaven amongst angels sweet and nube,
From Your Wonderful Throne, Rube, where you perch with aplomb,
Oh please, guide them, lead them and inspire them,
Do you want us to bomb?
You've got your Collection of Critics, The Great Ones Do Say,
We know they're not quite St. Vincent Millay,
But your Timesian Rain-Ore scrawls of Moil with such Grief,
While Stamford's Queen Artsy tries hard to be brief,
And Straining and Groaning, with all of her might,
Aspires to be Witty and quite Erudite,
Oh no, hear her Scream and look quick with Alarm,
Oh, Look what they've Done, my Conclusion's been Harmed,
Then Brooksian Katie gives it a shot,
But we know what they're after --
It's Old Rain-Ore's Spot.
But she hangs on with Gripping, Gnarled Hands that appall,
Whilst Ignoring the Words which Appear on the Wall,
That Papers are Fading,The Economy, now Rust,
And No One, yes, No One -- has a Gig that they Trust.
You've got Museums Galore There, They repeat and entreat,
Just kiss the Foul Bottoms of their Directorship Feet,
Volunteer, serve on Boards, till it gets you Quite Down,
That's the way you'll get known in all parts of your Town.
Like Gray Nature's Lady, your critic of old,
Who Proclaims to all who Wait to be Told,
Her Fame and her Wisdom, her Charm and her Wit,
But as far as we hear, No One gives a Great S _ _ T.
From up at the Mine to Larry's Avant,
And Cousin Brucie's in Greenwich,
What more could you want?
But Critics, Oh Great Ones, you don't Understand
It isn't museums that we do demand,
It's Spaces to Show In,
It's Patrons to Buy,
It's Mentions in ARTnews,
That will make us feel Grand.
Oh, come now, don't bellow,
And don't you Dare say,
That you want Us to Write of your local Arts day,
Or the Landmine, the Hasty, or May Street and Such,
Why, asking all that would be really Too Much,
Go look at Katonah, and Whitney, Do View,
And then you will see what you Then Have to Do,
Make haste! Move to Houston, Chicago, or even L.A.,
Now Thank You, Goodbye pests,
That's all we will Say.
But lo! Here, look, gaze and behold,
You've got there a Legend, at least it is told,
A Rumor goes Round of a Near-Success Story,
Of an Aged Ingenue who craves Town Fame and Glory,
Why, it's Little Lolita who Gushes and Fawns,
to gain Lofty Favor with Designers of Dawns,
I want just The Best for this Town, she declares,
While bumping and grinding her Hot Derriere.
Her big Claim to Fame, Groupie Art-Syncho-phants,
Beauticians and Leapers and Fashion Consultants,
Why, there's Robo, the dentist, who tries to be valiant,
As Bad Poets, with Worse Verses, entertain at Fete Gallants.
Oh back to the Tent, oh Lolita, do go,
Where June's gentle breezes will soften the blow.
But wait! Here's Tan Nacho, oh please, all of you,
He tries to make way, through the Terrible Crew,
Oh beat loudly our hearts, he does Saveth the Day,
From Politicians, The Authorities, and Great Scoundrels array.
It's He who will Save our Sweet Town from Despair,
Don't scold, can he help it, he's shaped like a Pear?
And if his rude mouth always gets him in trouble,
The artists will save him from the thick of the rubble.
Now, true there's a Teacher, so Wise and so Fair,
With great Libran balance -- she'll never despair,
Of greeting each challenge with Skill and Aplomb,
While hoping and wishing that Grants will still come.
Can Teacher steer Nacho to a Quieter Rage,
Whilst Guiding us all with a Skill oh, so Sage?
Now I hear By the By, that there's Plenty of Feuds,
With most of 'em frivolous, not terribly lewd,
Between Nacho, Lolita and don't forget Blank,
Who Simpers and Laughs all the way to her Bank.
And most of them snap at the Whistling Bard,
Who tries to be Chic, oh so Terribly Hard,
But his Mouth, Crowned with Thistles, so Bristly and Brusque,
Is coated by fragrance, why -- can it be -- Musk?
And up at the Yukon, they vie for a Spot,
Oh take me, enroll please, I'll make you So Hot,
Why, if it should happen,
Town Hall as of Late,
will be deemed as The Arts Place,
Well, just don't you wait,
I'll Mold you and Shape you and make you "For Sale"
You'll soon get your atelier in Old Town and Yale.
Look, there's Chairs Con Cajones who leads in a song,
Wow -- it's her Work she's Showing in New York's Swell Throng,
She's survived the Vague Drawl of the Gallery Matron,
Who perceives herself as Muse, as well as a Patron.
Who frequents all Imminent Loft Studios,
Then advises Art Editors with Upturned Foul Nose.
Look -- there's Jose and Boris and Sweet Little Honey,
Whose goal's to Work Quick and then make some Money,
And let's never forget the Excessive Garb,
of the Post Office Lady who takes many a Barb,
Or the Committees who Fancy all Pretentious Art,
With the sloppy Director, who Expounds with a fart.
As Hughes calls Our City the Shlock Dealer's Dream;
Much Wind, Little Talent, and Vast Self-Esteem.
And at the Town Crier, the Paper with News,
Where Wise Ones look down at the Town from their Pews,
The Hip One, The Plump One, The One sans a Spouse,
Of Them it is Told that We all love to Grouse.
There's One of Them There whose Big Mouth is so Loud,
That most would just love to throw her to the Crowd.
The artists implore Them, oh, Write of my Art,
Gotham Greats have ignored It and Broken my Heart,
But the Truth can be Told, with Knife and with Sword,
That all Townie News leaves them Terribly Bored.
Oh is it all just a Sad Tale of Woe,
for as Hughes has written and you all do know,
We Long for the Patrons whose Indulgent Glance,
The artist does crave, the dealers do dance?
And will the harsh title Suburbiad mean
For artists and writers, all Days of Great Lean?
Oh Hope, oh Kind Hope, let the Global Village show,
That denizens of Taste will be likely to Know,
That There in the Outskirts of Suburbiad Lurks,
Talent and Creativity along with the Jerks.
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