Friday, August 20, 2010

From France's Purple Semi-Colon Notebook ... 07.10 (an Italian poem!)

In the Front Pew, She Wept

The colours were wildly vibrant
Depicting fauvism certainly but still
A tribute to his skill; it worked

In such a confined space, a sacred one
As well; vivid emerald, lemon, cerulean
Stained glass reflected in alabaster

Even in the heat of the day with so many
Crowding the altar, the nave, everywhere,
Alone at the far end of the front pew she sat

Un-noticed by most, statue-still except
For the slight shuddering motion of her shoulders
As tears traced their way down her face and she wept

Asian perhaps? Did it matter?
Besides, too hard to tell, such was her posture
And the distortion wrought by grief
Upon her features

An enigma paying homage
To a genius in the simplest way
With the purest gift

Tears for Matisse,
Falling in his chapel.


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