Manny Grimaldi

Rafael Alberti Destroys His Paintings

Perhaps since I can see well in the dark, that is why I have no heart.
Mornings I brush urgently past custodians in El Prado to paint my little boxers
near the Goya and the Velasquez, then snuff them out with dribbles
of acetone within hours; the layers smudge and drip to a running smear,
color torn—flesh, splashes of green, gore. What gathers beneath the cold
canopies of pines and olives in Spain? My gypsies sob, bullfighter red, a song—look
at our hands, the lines in our faces, deep in our nares, we are ill. You see us, now
we see who you are. We see a line to your heart.

The sparrow rises, sees God’s face.
Illumined masters, I’ve slept in the warmth of your grace.
And I wake.
The autumnal night is cold. I feel warm, and nothing besides
this martial alarm clock march up the walls implores me to let my boys out again,
to hop on the canvas and try to live.

Since my school days on the bay,
I wanted fish, beaten rope, sun
     and the ocean.
I didn’t want to change the world
when clouds were just clouds,
and fog was impermanent;
nothing connects me to these beasts
     except my industry.

Saturn ate his children,
and masterpieces must be destroyed.
Fields must be burned. Buildings must be razed for new ones.
Close study seeks a life, and blood letting is a medical practice.

My martinets wobble, dodge, and tire the arms of my body.
Yet some are vegetable, from the first to harvest morning—
     and with a solitary drop to dissolve them,
     their knots come loose;
     no longer—- still.

Manny Grimaldi is Yearling managing editor going on 2 years plus having sorted through hundreds of poets and given an equal amount of poetry feedback to help people in their craft. He came upon this life in poetry through a major depressive attack and needed a method in which to survive–finding his aptitude for play worthy. Manny has a chapbook coming out November 15, 2024 with Finishing Line Press entitled, I love to say I love you but I don’t know what that means. He is glad the unspoken can say so much, otherwise, he might not have his beautiful children.

Next Poet: Cathleen Sanford Haar: Mycenae 2013, An Epitaph