Dwelling in the Shape of Things

Dwelling in the Shape of Things

Dwelling in the Shape of Things

I
The blue vase leans
a little 
to the left   its ruffled lip revealed
as if a lady’s petticoat
it is a blue we love   proving
there is innocence
three tentative apples
trying to keep from sliding
across the slanted tabletop
shyly huddle
closer
to what may be heaven—
a blue-rimmed plate and ink
bottle clearly secretive
then  we realise this is a tilting world
the weight of irises
pulling everything away
from the centre
in spite of the red heart
pinning it like an arrow


II
Here is water

how strangely the bather places
his hands
upon awkward hips
elbows right angles  quietly
quartering the canvas
and steps hesitantly from the
solid rocks into
a liquid world of pearl blue and opaline grey as if
he fears some dissolution
this is not a swimmer
but half a land creature
with its thin arms and narrower shoulders
above the powerful legs
of a bicycliste used
to controlling his element


III
Seated in a chair which rises like a flower
out of the deeply patterned rug
at once the sea
and a field of waving poppies
a pink and gilt chair no less amazing
than the half turned figure in black its cushioned arms embrace
alive with fondness
the eye takes in hands   entwined fingers become
many-limbed animals coupling
and down the angled legs
crossed casually to the slippers  one not quite but almost dangling
from the relaxed and jaunty foot
those soft old slippers which say everything
we may have missed
the face
but never the red pear shapes
distracting the wallpaper behind it
or the elaborately framed pictures
or the little chest of drawers’
warm brown marquetry


IV
It is the eyes
and the dark mouth enclosed within
a pod of blue      a shadow
always behind
the left shoulder
wherever we walk
we can feel it there
terrible and light
as the mist above a lake in morning
grey of such tenderness
if we could only turn!
the crosses hanging around our necks
would not be so heavy
and so strange
hands which lie
like weapons in our laps


V
The peace of apples

an ivory-handled knife waits patiently
a level horizon   everything
is as it should be
stillness
of clear water in a glass

grapes like an army of children
tumble in a bowl
afraid of nothing
we can hear their shouts and the gentle reprimands
of their teachers
standing quietly by

rounded shapes achingly imperfect
how they all belong to each other!
red as the glow through closed lids
or between fingers held up to the sun
pale spring and yellow green   a soft evening sky
full of the winging of doves


VI
The yellow straw hat sits uneasily
ridiculously
on the head
full lips and sliding eyes
in a fleshy face we recognise
as one of our own
even though the black coat takes up too much space
and we are ashamed
such grossness feeding on the innocent
eating up too many   entirely
certain of its place in the universe
the background recedes   ears burn and eyebrows arch
we must never forget this is
a painting not a portrait however
it seems to be one
a hat assumed only for the sake
of contrast against the grey
but it is a business to make
meaning where there is none


VII
How much like sticks the leafless trees of winter are
it takes
all of the little faith we have
to keep believing they will blossom again
at the coming of the sun
here trees are frozen black and unforgiving
yet lithe as a group of dancers
waiting for the notes to begin
a spangle of ice coating their limbs

from a distance an impassive mountain watches
shadowless green of the grove


VIII
It is a time
the clock with no hands massive and black its white face
has become pure as God
floating above the white shroud
draped like a curtain
in stiff folds
deep shadowed creases
hiding what’s underneath
on the table a sea-shell’s
red gash
in creamy flesh
gaping  mouth
a glassy flower rising with fluted wings
the essence of grey
from which all dreams come
blue-grey waves of the Atlantic in winter
dropping to the floor of light
at the centre   small elliptical hole in the canvas
a shout of yellow shining through from
somewhere
a nowhere which is here
how do we feel before it   gazing
awe-struck and in love?


IX
Beyond the barking of a dog
the face is pure oval
above the massive slab of dress with
its dark satin bands
winnowing upwards
a slight inclination of the head
will give you wistfulness
and the modest
covered buttons


X
Is it possible to represent
our feelings so exactly?
the twisted trunks of trees mimic
furiously writhing couples volupté    
whose embrace offers nothing
but violence
not even in the pale violet blue of the sky
the vulnerable green of the leaves and grass is
there peace or tenderness
only desire
a leaping dog with bared teeth
the screams of a woman being raped
or giving birth
are the same
we would rather believe these figures might be dancing
and that the one who bends to wake
the sleeper
does so gently


XI
In L’Estaque   those small
houses with their red roofs
a slide of snow threatening to overwhelm them
and the grey-white cloud
running away
the wind blowing
a road going nowhere and in those houses there seems
no warmth
no smoke issuing from the chimneys
shunning the dark swords of trees which rush down the
slope with the melting snow
it is as if the whole world
has been left to the trees


XII
Is it true that our eyes see what
our hearts have conditioned?
this bald dome
rounded and climbable
as a hillside above shoulders of hunched earth and rock
the tentative mouth sunk in a patch of dark beard
the eyes two windows
unaligned and different as those of an old farmhouse
one clear as a baby
one skulking behind a barbed wire gate
crowned with a pattern
of diamonds and crosses
cruel points in drab grey


XIII
At first you don’t notice it
only the vertical line of a tree cutting
the picture in half  then white vertebrae
ivory comb of aqueduct
the horizontal vector making the eye move outwards into nothing or
inwards to the centre and the mountain
which as if just awakened and still violet with sleep
possesses the valley
we would like to go there
descend the steep hill
from where we stand looking
into the soft green and golden places
to be dissolved in a delicate geometry
all things becoming equal


XIV
The alchemist’s dream
to make square
what is round   a wave of white cloth
rises up ready
to engulf the little ship
rudderless
with a cargo of ageing apples
while squat and sturdy jars
casting  no shadows are
in turn overpowered by a wooden sky
dark with keyholes glowering
a chaste kitchen table with one shy drawer
humbly balances it all


XV
Red-tiled roofs of houses seem
now like old
friends  even the plume of smoke rising from a single
narrow chimney
is fixed
in space and time despite its apparent fragility
as are the mountains across the bay
lightly cloaked
with a pure substanceless sky
the other side
of the world   uninhabited   calmly dreaming
like an animal deep in sleep
the mind builds a bridge over dark blue water
but cannot walk on it
distance remains
we stay forever on the peopled shore
content with the view
through a window


XVI
How little we know about one another
each locked in our own delicate case
surrounded by dark scenery
we contemplate
the apples laid out before us
making deep shadows
on a sail of white cloth
like holes in a field of freshly fallen snow
round reddish gold
we do not understand them
only one woman
with a neck curved and vulnerable as a swan’s
holds warm fruit in her hands
leaning toward the centre
giving   or taking away
and what difference between such gestures
in the end?
brooding parallel of trees  a storm threatens

that last strange gleaming light the sides of our faces
illuminates
a couple walks away into the coming darkness
uninterested
clouds cloth hem edge repeat their shape