Essay On Whistler
The Princess from the Land of Porcelain,
a French woman wearing a kimono
next to a vase painted with trilliums
and a small flock of yellow-eyed juncos.
Whistler, you blamed a bad review by Ruskin
for poisoning the world against your Rocket,
its slow ash drifting over Cremorne Gardens.
The fog and murk of London were your nocturne.
But nobody remembers that lawsuit.
L’art pour l’art, no pity for your sake.
Some paintings were shambolic, busy, crude,
but you sloughed off the ecstasies of Blake
for something more objective, more reserved;
emotions were the enemy you served.
About the Author: Cal Freeman (he/him) is the author of the books Fight Songs (Eyewear 2017), Poolside at the Dearborn Inn (R&R Press 2022), and “The Weather of Our Names” (Cornerstone Press 2025). His writing has appeared in many journals including Atticus Review, The Poetry Review, Verse Daily, Stand Magazine, North American Review, Oxford American, Berkeley Poetry Review, and Southword. He teaches at Oakland University and serves as Writer-In-Residence with InsideOut Literary Arts Detroit.
Image Credit: James McNeill Whistler “Nocturne in Black and Gold – The Falling Rocket” (1875) Public domain image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
As It Ought To Be 
