At the Morgan,* Renoir’s drawings
And some paintings are displayed,
Including varied studies
Leading up to works he made.
There were several lovely landscapes,
Which I’ve never seen before.
I preferred them to his portraits
And I wish they’d offered more.
Yet to me, what was amazing
Was a film which had no sound,
Which portrayed an older Renoir
Who, by then, though still renowned,
Had severe arthritis in his hands,
His fingers gnarled and bent,
But with brushes strapped onto his wrists,
He’d paint to some extent.
In the movie, which appeared home-made,
An easel waited there
As he dabbed it with his claw-hand,
Though this work he didn’t share.
Still, he glanced up at the camera,
Looking impish and quite pleased,
Maybe showing off his skills despite
The way his bones had seized.
In 1919, Renoir died
And yet we get to see
Such a master at his painting,
Which was quite a thrill to me.
*The Morgan Library and Museum, New York City
Let sunshine rule news on front page,
But where’s its old dreamy image?
Where those soft strokes of blue,
Ochre, green, purple hue,
Monetisque summer’s old adage?
Mild tone nor yet tenor,
Heat there’s real, not Renoir,
It’s Earth’s revenge or Sunny rage?
____________________________________
Happenings |08.07.2023| summer
Poet’s note: Time was when summer had an air of romance; time was when Impressionist style painters painted summer with soft strokes of light blue; time was, summer was just an absence of harsh winter in Europe, and a heat wave there was anything above 25 degree C, and in India, 45 degree C, but no longer. To add to all this are widespread forest fires. Sure, the heat is real, no longer the romantic soft strokes of Renoir.
conversations caught -
in soft focus impressionist
Renoir keeps a little mystery back
does not like to paint faces
rather likes you to imagine them
here are two sisters painted by him
in his signature colors
wow
It was a hot Sunday afternoon in Vienna, Missouri…
If I’da been a gentleman, I would a turned my back
When I got to the swimmin’ hole today.
Instead, I hid behind a tree and spied as she undressed;
And Lord, the vision took my breath away.
I knew that she was beautiful from watching her at school;
The auburn scholar reading Parson Weems.
But her beneath that cherry tree beside Ben Miller’s pond
Was more than what I pictured in my dreams.
It felt a bit dishonest though, I cannot tell a lie.
I thought my heart would burst right through my chest.
The cute straw hat she wore to church was lying with her clothes,
Her cotton dress, her scarf and all the rest.
When she moved here from Baltimore, I knew she’d bring me luck,
But this reward was more than I deserve.
As she stood pinning up her hair, I practiced what I’d say
If I could only rustle up the nerve.
Tomorrow we’ll be back at school to start the final week
Before the summer frees us from our books.
I know I’ll have to fight the urge to whisper in her ear,
“Hey, I know how a naked goddess looks.”
Renoir touched my heart,
my eyes, my soul, sighing lips —
illumined brushstrokes
~ ~ ~
Renoir touché mon cœur,
mes yeux, mon âme, soupirant des lèvres -
coups de pinceau éclairés
10/12/2019
Why do you stare so?
I can see you, you know
Appreciation is one thing but really…
I’m just not in the mood today
My back hurts
And
I’m a little hung-over!
I guess I can’t blame you
I am beautiful
And my coloring is luminous
But give a girl a break
I never have any privacy
It’s really not so bad I suppose
Surrounded by beauty,
Constant admiration
A lesser work would kill for it
Enough complaining,
It’s back to work for me
Sit still, look pretty,
As if I had a choice!
8/15/17
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