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Home>Stories>Poet Jorie Graham Responds to a Painting by Edouard Vuillard 

Art in Focus

# Poet Jorie Graham Responds to a Painting by Edouard Vuillard

 min read

As part of our “Poetry is a country” festival we invited celebrated American poets to compose something new inspired by art in our collection. Jorie Graham responds to Edouard Vuillard’s *Repast in a Garden*. 

**BEFORE**

**Jorie Graham**

it came, before the turn in the cherishedwind, what we called history, the turntowards, all of it more and more*towards*—what is it that is coming—must come—unfathomable, unbreakable—you want it so, your*future*, no *the*future, sobadly—you standon the threshold of your century as on a highparapet, brush in hand, a ladder wrinkling the air as it rises,a kind of singing,rung by rung—all of you bowing to it saying thank you, thank you my lucky stars I am livingnow—right now—of all times this is the one now,the air ahead all tongues, they are actually red why don’t yousee it—& all will burn my friend—are you there—where are you now—is there a place to still be out therenow, in the actual future, which came aboutafter all—because none of thiswill survive, though from here, so sun-dappled inwhat we called hours, long strings of human eagerness, & wonder curiosity hope expectation belief—(under the skin greed)(never mind that)(greed feeling its way into the hours)but the story above so shiny,the whole prepared-for-the-future soul nodding, saying you’re welcome, yes,you’re even more welcome[*I’m letting you go now are you ready*][*I trust you to catch me*]and the afternoon went on forever,and the path to the walled gardenwent on forever,the repast the Sunday the sunlight burning this leaf then that one, the wine on the table, burning, the bread,the thudding of the minutes inaudible,of what’s *in* the minutes, that greed,like a fleet of bombers actually,as the empty path filled up with men, rows and rowsstacked on the sides,bodies crying or no longer able to,a small path maintained for the stretcher-carriers,but all of this still invisible[except in the brushstroke]the one with no legs saying to no one*what’s this all about*,engines, sweat, memory of marching *as one*, huddled up till he’s a rag now calling for his mother,vital fluid seeping into the dirt,growling of plane circling low,what’s got you boy,nerves got you boy,till the path to this garden delivers its message,its millions of facescrying medic, crying mom, one of them whispering this was my homeonce, right in there—this hour— in our garden—where I look in my parents’ eyes and see nothing buta world addressedface to face, nothingbut the surfaces of thingsunbreakable, all round usthe sun perjuring itself promising*the world cannot turn on you*,gold firing on every leaf and pane,ricochet of sunstrikes on glass, twig, stone,the wall of vines all mouths whispering *here you are here you are*,*fill your glass the promises shall be kept*& a quiet in the light, a quiet that cannot die,over our repast in the garden,my one fear that I would spill the glass in the conflagration of simplicities.Those who will never walk again on this earth.Those who will never walk againin the shadows of the garden.What did I become.Oh, the future said, this train can go faster than this track can withstand,why not,we’re heading out, it’s speed which is carrying us now,the vehicle is an illusion,the bend up ahead you keep squinting into, you canforget it,after the bend, wonders, after the bendthe soul will be made to expand—tongues—more tongues—so blue—whispering a little lifea little morethat’s the ticketthat one dayin the gardenat the small table,it is coming on evening,the blossoms have just fallen, all of them, all at once, a gust just came through,we can still smell them,the earth is white with their silks,no decay taints or wrinklesmother father child,it must be Sunday,the sun has not yet gone,it fingers around the garden tending, selecting,who is this speaking here,the sun touches our jackets where the small boy who is memust be hearing something,something unheard of,he wants to hear it,he raises his arms out to his sides as if to cry outbut does not,how happy we are he thinks,how perfect they are,my arms rising mid-reach above the blossoms,my fingers stretching out,the evening the blossoms the sun descending,soon there will be a smile,they will begin to smiletheir rare smile,*all is what it seems* I am thinking,he is thinking,the painter is thinking.It is 1898.We are in the lullbefore history dissolves,before terror comes and demands its payment in fullfor what will not be delivered.We will not be delivered.

Please note: We have tried to preserve the formatting of poems, but some devices may distort how text appears. Read the poem in its original formatting here.

Edouard Vuillard, *Repast in a Garden*, 1898, oil on cardboard, Chester Dale Collection, 1963.10.229

Explore new creations by some of America’s most important living poets.Read more

**Jorie Graham**

Pulitzer Prize winner (1996) and the Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratoryat Harvard University

September 20, 2023

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