From sordid German poverty he fled,
And from the tyrrany of nameless toil,
Clutching some treasured crayons. And in his head
He carried the seed of Art to virgin soil.

A pastry cook by day, by night his driving Will
Taught Ganso how to be a printmaker.
Every technique he mastered. Every skill
Lodged in the fingers of this struggling baker.

Yet, nothing of his past shows in his works.
No hint of painful years, nothing mean or crude,
No gnawing hunger, no biting cold, lurks
Beneath the sensuous sheen of the nude.

He mastered the body, but not the face, of Life
Before Fate put an end to his endless strife.

Copyright (2006) by Arnold Cantor.
All rights reserved.

[Written July 5, 1987.]