NJ -- Hamilton -- Grounds For Sculpture -- All except sculptures:
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GFSA_180822_070.JPG: History of New Jersey State Fairgrounds
GFSA_180822_081.JPG: Domestic Arts Building
GFSA_180822_084.JPG: "For the Children of the World Trade Center Victims" by BJ Ward
Nothing could have prepared you --
Note: Every poem I have ever written is not as important as this one.
Note: This poem says nothing important.
Clarification of last note:
This poem cannot save 3,000 lives.
Note: This poem is attempting to pull your father out of the rubble, still living and glowing and enjoying football on Sunday.
Note: This poem is trying to reach your mother in her business skirt, and get her home to Ridgewood where she can change to her robe and sip Chamomile tea as she looks through the bay window at the old, untouched New York City skyline.
Note: This poem is aiming its guns at the sky to shoot down the terrorists and might hit God if He let this happen.
Note: This poem is trying to turn that blooming of orange and black of the impact into nothing more than a sudden tiger-lily whose petals your mother and father could use as parachutes, float down to the streets below, a million dandelion seeds driving off to the untrafficked sky above them.
Note: This poem is still doing nothing.
Note: Somewhere in this poem there may be people alive, and I'm trying like mad to reach them.
Note: I need to get back to writing the poem to reach them instead of dwelling on these matters, but how can any of us get back to writing poems?
Note: The sound of this poem: the sound of a scream in 200 different languages that outshouts the sounds of sirens and airliners and glass shattering and concrete crumbling as steel is bending and the orchestral tympani of our American hearts when the second plane hit.
Note: The sound of a scream in 200 languages is the same sound. It is the sound of a scream.
Note: In New Jersey over the next four days, over thirty people asked me if I knew anyone in the catastrophe.
Yes, I said.
I knew every single one of them.
GFSA_180822_130.JPG: Grounds for Sculpture helipad
GFSA_180822_148.JPG: From "Selected Poems"
by Philip Levine
Milkweek
Remember how unimportant they seemed, growing loosely in the open fields we crossed on the way to school. We would carve wooden swords and slash at the luscious trunks until the white milk started and then flowed. Then we'd go on to the long day after day of the History of History or the tables of numbers and order as the clock slowly paid out the moments. The windows went dark first with rain and then snow, and then the days, then the years ran together and not one mattered more than another, and not one mattered.
Two days ago I walked the empty woods, bent over, crunching through oak leaves, asking myself questions without answers. From somewhere a froth of seeds drifted by touched with gold in the last light of a lost day, going with the wind as they always did.
GFSA_180822_158.JPG: Vandalism happens
GFSA_180822_179.JPG: From "The Rose"
by William Butler Yeats, 1865-1939
When You Are Old
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
GFSA_180822_201.JPG: "What Came to Me" from "Otherwise: New & Selected Poems". Copyright 1996 by the Estate of Jane Kenyon with the permission of Greywolf Press, Saint Paul, MN.
By Jane Kenyon, 1947-1995
What Came to Me
I took the last
dusty piece of china
out of the barrel.
It was your gravy boat,
with a hard, brown
drop of gravy still
on the porcelain lip.
I grieved for you then
as I never had before.
GFSA_180822_240.JPG: From "PM/AM New and Selected Poems"
By Linda Pastan
The Moss Palace
At Kokodera you saw as many kinds of moss
as there are names for snow among the eskimos,
and the moss lay in deep banks like snow. You tell
me of soft jade between the stones,
of fur on the north side of trees,
of wild pincushions at the edge of a stream, as smooth
as the pads of an animal's paw when it
rests its tamed head upon your lap.
Moss serves no purpose the gardener says, neglect your
lawn and moss will overtake it.
I want to be overtaken by moss, to walk in my bare feet
on twenty different kinds, to move from
the hardness of rock to sudden velvet and sink the way
I sink in the green of your eyes when you speak of
going with me to Japan, when the place
where my body stops and yours begins is moss.
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Wikipedia Description: Grounds For Sculpture
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Grounds For Sculpture (GFS) is a 42-acre (170,000 m2) sculpture park and museum located in Hamilton, NJ, United States, on the former site of the New Jersey State Fairgrounds. Founded in 1992 by John Seward Johnson II, the venue is dedicated to promoting an understanding of and appreciation for contemporary sculpture by organizing exhibitions, publishing catalogues, and offering a variety of educational programs and special community events.
In July 2000, GFS became a nonprofit organization open to the public. Operation revenues come from visitors, art patrons, donations, and grants. GFS maintains an ever changing collection of sculptures, with works by Seward Johnson and other artists.
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