Presumably, we’d all once found something magic in making art—why else were we taking this class? Yet no one ever described the joy they felt in witnessing something beautiful. All of Elliott’s prints were beautiful. It was as simple as that.
Or do they belong to bilges
and broken pumps, shrouded to the eyes
with progressive waves that scour,
tumbling the surface, turning hours
identical, each as homeless as
these babies born between countries?
To be honest, I don’t quite know what to write: I love you, Simon? No autopsy, please? Humanity blows? None of these seems substantial enough for a statement of such finality.
the faithful scholar dreams of being exact,
invites unsorrowing reason in, builds
a church of math: illuminates this volume of
violence with formulae, brackets the absence
with love for the civilian dead approaching infinite—
Ulysses S. Grant said it well in his personal memoirs: “I felt like anything rather than rejoicing at the downfall of a foe who had fought so long and valiantly, and had suffered so much for a cause, though that cause was, I believe, one of the worst for which a people ever fought, and one for which there was the least excuse.”