Yvonne Smith was a painter, a poet, an eternal spirit,
beloved by her community at Goldwater Hospital and the
writers from NYU who worked with her in a poetry workshop
over many years. Below, one of her many electrifying poems.
Ars Poetica
I sing of: flowers, oranges, animals,
I write of: bull rides across the sky,
sheep grazing, lucky charm rocks,
airplanes, socks, wigs:
and I write of: the Jersey shore, the Bronx,
West Indies, highways, hospitals
and I write about: mother, a blowjob man,
bull rider bus drivers.
And I write of: brightness, New York love,
riding a bull.
I wish I could write about: Mick Jagger.
And I will write about: New York City.
If poetry is a city then poetry lives
in Madison Square Garden,
If poetry is an arena, then my poetry is round
and from the outside the people are square
and from the inside flattened like pancakes
If poetry is a plane, then my poetry is supersonic
My poetry is an airplane that passes over the
buildings of New York. My poetry lives in a closet.
Very narrow—spewing words on paper, having eyes
that see—leaps buildings in a single bound.
My poetry is Kryptonite.
A poem should be soft as a comforter on a bed
with creases between designs
and hills and mountains
that make you lose track of time
A poem should taste sweet
as Boston crème-filled donuts
with chocolate all around the edges
A poem should sound like a harp
melodies from the heavens pour
themselves into the bowls of human ears
that are waiting for a message.