Paris . . . about twenty years ago
He is not, of course; not even his ghost.
He sits near the edge of Place Vendôme,
His half-legs barely holding his torso
Not on the tiny crutches of Lautrec
But a little dolly of wood and wheels,
His canvas propped against a suitcase
Of paints and brushes, rags redolent
Of turpentine and palettes splashed
With all the colors of Paris in June
Where the afternoon light is brushing
Tulieres Gardens and Rue de la Paix.
He is painting a street-scene, both
The one before him and the one he sees
Strolling through the Gardens and street
Of his imagining; or perhaps in another
Life he once had been as these people
He paints, and is framing a memory.
Watching him, I wish I could know
What has made of him an artist . . .
Is it his useless legs that carried him
To this place to walk it with his eyes
And hands, see and touch it in a way
We hurrying here will never know?
Has he become by what he has lost
And in losing become wholly himself?
Hunched over his canvas he is the light
In the Gardens, the colors of the street,
And I a shadow at the edge of his brush.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 653 times
Written on 2010-11-11 at 17:11
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I Meet Toulouse-Lautrec
He is not, of course; not even his ghost.
He sits near the edge of Place Vendôme,
His half-legs barely holding his torso
Not on the tiny crutches of Lautrec
But a little dolly of wood and wheels,
His canvas propped against a suitcase
Of paints and brushes, rags redolent
Of turpentine and palettes splashed
With all the colors of Paris in June
Where the afternoon light is brushing
Tulieres Gardens and Rue de la Paix.
He is painting a street-scene, both
The one before him and the one he sees
Strolling through the Gardens and street
Of his imagining; or perhaps in another
Life he once had been as these people
He paints, and is framing a memory.
Watching him, I wish I could know
What has made of him an artist . . .
Is it his useless legs that carried him
To this place to walk it with his eyes
And hands, see and touch it in a way
We hurrying here will never know?
Has he become by what he has lost
And in losing become wholly himself?
Hunched over his canvas he is the light
In the Gardens, the colors of the street,
And I a shadow at the edge of his brush.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 653 times
Written on 2010-11-11 at 17:11
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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