This is a little fun! Here's my Guernica, a world away, I think, from yours, Michael, though I'm not sure what my takeaway from that is. I like your poem and title.
Cheers,
John
Real Hope of Respite
The upstairs light blew out about the time
I went to view Guernica. I’ve arranged
books on my shelves by centuries; Picasso
lives upstairs, although Kafka and Thomas Mann
are near the sofa where I sit as Liszt
plays on the stereo. It’s 2 a.m.
Guernica. Now I see that tortured bull,
those hands uplifted – suppliant hands with no
real hope of respite. Is it bleached of color?
It is in memory – a wall of lines,
of blocks, angles, and shading. Nor did Goya
put red in his Desastres de la Guerra,
for what it’s worth. The horror does just fine.
Bombs drop from Heaven and cause collateral damage,
it would appear – though here the target was
hit on the bull’s eye. As the bull confirms.
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