The Fulbright Triptych, by Simon Dinnerstein
T H E F U L B R I G H T T R I P T Y C H
S I M O N R E N É E S I M O N E
Written by Dean Johnson
Time ceases to be.
Not so for sycamore balls.
One fell to the floor.
Handles each twice grip
two sap-lacquered workbench drawers.
Two-stalked barnacles.
Embracing lichen,
Lifemates Alga and Fungus:
Date night’s on the house.
Floors fade to one point…
Dinnersteins’ legs point to more.
‘Tis the Twilight Zone.
Under Apkallu,
gardens bloom with fruit blossoms,
nigh three thousand years.
Leaves and cobblestones
‘round Simon’s copper plate, groove,
playing Duck, Duck, Goose!
Blue fescue, rising,
stretching wide as ocean waves,
mouthing lullabies.
Renaissance guildsmen,
vacationing school girls, peer
through the oil paint.
In his bezeled case,
wind-up-man seems to ask me,
“Lived wisely, this time?”
Green sun-seeking vines,
glowing above parents’ heads:
secular halos.
Honey-grained peg board,
inspires through myriad pores,
Holy with fine art.
Two slay L’homme armé,
sound machines await new breath;
big bird blows up ships.
Tiny pasque flowers
gently sprout in virgin soil,
growing where peace is.
Renée to Simon
writes of her round, airbourne fruit:
Annunciation.
I may be the One…
in shining gold leaf, thought I…
Gray came…solitude.
Pearls, sorrowing eyes,
six small tears descend flushed cheeks,
bless the thirsting vines.
Twenty seven stubs,
stalwart like Monty’s black knight:
“ ‘tis but a flesh wound!”
‘Y’s’, count on four lives:
‘yet,’ ‘gym,’ ‘my’, ‘baby,’ I ask:
“Why, oh, why can’t I??!!!”
she drafts filtration gear for
bearing the new world.
Jacob Meyer cartoon: not
comic; devout…rich.
pressed flat, like a dried flower,
paused between two states.
finds his fine name, on the map,
in one German’s crypt.
ever “thrusting through the mask,”
hunting for art’s truth.
tools for the humanities,
clocks by which we see.
Van Eyck’s Madonna in Church:
Inconceivable!
Sam Sudler, in his red shirt,
she holds his hand, still.
made this statue most austere…
Wittgenstein’s ‘beauty.’
deftly sown ‘round Muraqqas’
Persian garden patch.
paper whites and silver black
windows to the soul.
seventy phonemes in all,
recite Wittgenstein.
code pale blue dot voyages:
Simone’s Sapphires.
protested posing so long.
He twisted her arm.
Simone’s mom dreamt her as
a dish suds bubble.
perfecting fine artist’s skills,
painters…pianists.
this bright child and madonna,
only natural.
whispered…while in Köln…homesick…
Stirred thoughts of Brooklyn.