For years, you’ve raved to me about Matisse:
his colours! scything lines! the empty space
as potent as the shapes, the bold release
of cut-outs flung at walls, at age’s face:
his finest work came last, you said. It can,
with artists, often. You’d draw on him – you swerved
to talk of cave-wall art. I froze, dead-pan.
You’d paint me skinny. When I saw the curved
tattoos and belly-flesh, I cried, relieved.
You see me, paddling jungles, unashamed
to use a wheelchair. Like Matisse. He weaved
between assistants, cut when age had claimed
his dexterous hands. I watch your art release
and knuckles swelling. Don’t forget Matisse.
Thanks (I think) to Napowrimo.net for the prompt to write a sad sonnet, simply expressed, and to Robert Lee Brewer for Writers' Digest April Poem-a-day challenge for the prompt to write a poem about an artist.
See the new NaPoWriMo poems as they pop up, complete with pics of the handwritten drafts, natter to me, and help me with titles for them, via whatever social media you call home:
All my poems on this site are now #FreeForPoets to play with, to write hybrid forms such as glosas, coupling poems, golden shovels, acrostics, centos, and erasures. Full permissions here: #FreeForPoets.