Sunday, July 23, 2006
Monet
Monet
He was not afraid
of what was beautiful.
He was able to capture it,
place it on his canvas
like bits of crystal light
frozen forever
into symmetry.
The famous water lilies
were more than real,
beyond the merely observed.
The blooms of their chalices
leapt from that shining surface
like lanterns set adrift
on water, to find their way
to other destinations,
regions not yet explored.
And the cliffs, the winding
upward path, the trees and their
burnished leaves,
you knew that you too had
been there,
breathed their brightness,
tasted those succulent hues
like strawberries
ripe in the mouth.
You too felt the salted breeze
along the coastal shore,
your flesh stroked
by the sensuous sun,
heard the surge and withdraw
of the deep sea drone,
the throaty note
from below.
What he gave us
was more than himself,
his eye, his craft.
It was, rather,
the throb at the core,
the very pulse
of whatever it is.
Dorothy Walters
July 21, 2006
He was not afraid
of what was beautiful.
He was able to capture it,
place it on his canvas
like bits of crystal light
frozen forever
into symmetry.
The famous water lilies
were more than real,
beyond the merely observed.
The blooms of their chalices
leapt from that shining surface
like lanterns set adrift
on water, to find their way
to other destinations,
regions not yet explored.
And the cliffs, the winding
upward path, the trees and their
burnished leaves,
you knew that you too had
been there,
breathed their brightness,
tasted those succulent hues
like strawberries
ripe in the mouth.
You too felt the salted breeze
along the coastal shore,
your flesh stroked
by the sensuous sun,
heard the surge and withdraw
of the deep sea drone,
the throaty note
from below.
What he gave us
was more than himself,
his eye, his craft.
It was, rather,
the throb at the core,
the very pulse
of whatever it is.
Dorothy Walters
July 21, 2006
