...hope it's there. . .at least close. . .

There he is, leaning out the window of that wedding cake,
Hotel Regina.  This is where he comes to gather himself
before battling paint and canvas.  Gorges on sky, palms,
and wrought-iron.  Beloved Things cause clutter, and he eats
it up.  Comes close to making himself sick on the patterns
made by the slats of the shutters and the shadow stripes
echoing in and out.  Dots mesmerize.   He flips them
over and crosses them with flashes of a leopard
spied in Africa.   Add a curve here, there. . .drunk
on Cezanne,  then Seurat, he keeps kicking colors about
as he soaks up more Cote d'Azur.   He will make hue
do somersaults,  he will make it stand on its head
and wave.  (Hear him in  school:   Why do I have to
make grass green?    See orange.  See pink.  My sky
is green.  People purple, so there!)    Now he has
it both ways.  The sea, the beautiful sea, the Cote,
and his Great Indoors.  (Georgia O'Keeffe would echo  
him with a twist when she swooned over Ghost Ranch
in New Mexico.  New love's name?  The Faraway.)
 
Circa 1905, Henri got restless.   Soothing with decor
had palled,  quelle surprise.  "Really, Henri!"  tsked.
Color,  long a tool to embellish, grated nerves
by waxing unpredictable.  Flowers and chests
lost polish and caterwampused.  Some historians
paint him an ostrich.  Apolitical. True,
he was fond of giving rest.  But whoa.  Henri
is saying something.  Seeds already there.  See
the portraits used to pay rent.   Slumps,
long countenances,  flat eyes.   Oh, Henri
knew blue.   Why else would he blue dancers
into S and M contortions against good sense
at today's Cirque du Soleil?    Much sorrow drowned
in Islamic mazes and the begilded and bejeweled
stairs, halls, and towers of slaved-over Moscow
and St. Petersburg.   Follow me home, Henri said.
Let you spread out on my palette.  Won't recognize
yourself when I'm through.  Some work busy, so?
Tonic to many.   Slapdash betwixt or copycat
throw-away the price of brilliance.  Great Artist
rolls a one and a two.  Okay, everybody has to eat.   
Kiss, comprenez?   Oils keep going up.  Train
tickets,  boat tickets, boxes at operas.  Bazaars
such as Morocco's hurt after haggling.   Odd
knuckle-under  buys a chance to get down.  Create
for real and pay an installment to God for giving
appendicitis and freeing you from the bar.  You
who are meant to be, just have to be Henri
                                                       M a t i s s e



(c) Phyllis Jean Green, 2006
        All Rights Reserved