Saturday, January 3, 2009

The Masters

The artist saw in her
all the colors he
could ever paint,
but she saw azure freedom
blazing o'er his shoulder.
Another's slippers
tapped out quarter notes
and triplets, dipping to
her partner in the waltz,
smiling, with a curtsy.
Yet another photographed
the world in black and white
to mimic his bleak inner landscape.
When she felt his cold contrasts
she wrapped herself
in shadow both for warmth and
to avoid the lens.
Like us, the pigment fades.
The gloves are wrapped in tissue.
Where is the hope
of tasting the sweet longing
of another, or of healing
someone's broken wing?
Oh, a few play jazzy sevenths
echoing the discord
between Vermeer and his young subject
painting her so bright that
the girl is not diminished
but immortal made,
and the moment, too.
How can we join the masters,
let our rhythm burst forth blindly
from our brushes,
close the shutter
against the driving rain,
awaken pulsing in the catwings
of every foggy morning
like dawn never came before?

No comments: