Why I Don'T Get Jackson Pollock

When he starts a new painting, Canvas stretched taut against the defining frame, Gesso-coated smooth and even, Pure and uniform… How does he begin? Are his tubes of paint arrayed in careful rows, Summer colors first – winter colors last? Is the final result already in his mind, Or, does it grow organically, Layer upon layer? Does he paint all the reds at once, The blooming roses and spurting blood? Are the blacks a backdrop for stars Or a prayer against the coming night? Is the smear of green a leafy tree? The blue streaks a sky? How can he tell? And, after all the colors are piled up, And the canvas is awash in paint, Leaping from the edges of the frame Ready to crawl across the wall… All this I can understand in my engineer’s heart But… how does he know when it’s done? This is why I prefer nature to modern art. God knows we’re not finished yet!