Picturing Utrillo
by Bill Yarrow
At him always, pestering him with unanswerable questions, why does he paint this, why doesn't he paint that, he doesn't know, he just paints, things that strike him, the things he sees, a dim shadow on a monument, twisted sunlight on an awning, the blue hieroglyphics of decay, a cat in the wine, the white endless façade of homes, the pink and grey of skies in love with loneliness. She watches as he stirs. Oblivious of everything, he rises, washes out his eyes, pours water through a spoon of sugar into his glass and begins to sip his pale-green drink. Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder. His canvas parts its lips and puckers. He grabs his Muse by the waist and pulls her toward him, presses his middle against her middle, his chest against her breasts, digs his fingers into her curls, pulls at the elastic of her blouse, her shoulders, suddenly, shockingly bare, her lower throat open to his open mouth, she's all a mess, dishabille, his hurried fingers take up the brush, a splash of paint, a daub of color, sips of silver, hatch of black, a wipe of white, lush squares of pastel tints, the second-story windows begin to form, enfeebled trees sprout up, the horizon is firmly planted behind the alley, around the corner, just beneath the burgeoning sky. What does this mean? What does what mean? Where are the people? They have not yet been born. Overhead, mawkish gulls begin to weep daylight into the marsh. The gutters blush as men in bloody aprons take their business to their walls. Priests in red robes bend their tonsures toward eternity, or so it seems to him, supine, head wedged against the bookcase, mouth agape, dreaming of fragrant dangers, feet splayed artlessly, legs perpendicular to the floor.
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Author's Note
A version of this poem was published in Pirene's Fountain, appears in the anthology Aeolian Harp, Volume One, and is forthcoming in "The Vig of Love" (Glass Lyre Press, September 2016).
http://www.amazon.com/Aeolian-Harp-Anthology-Volume-1/dp/1941783163
"Maurice Utrillo" appears in THE VIG OF LOVE (Glass Lyre Press, 2016).
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I think this must be the best thing of yours I have come across so far, so many lines and images I wish I could have written.
What a rush! *
"Overhead, mawkish gulls begin to weep daylight into the marsh."
Damn. ******
What a rush is right.*
So good, Bill.
"Overhead, mawkish gulls begin to weep daylight into the marsh. The gutters blush as men in bloody aprons take their business to their walls."
I like. *
Great texture.
*
"His canvas parts its lips and puckers" one of many fine images. *
Then this from Wikipedia"
An apocryphal anecdote told by Diego Rivera concerning Utrillo's paternity is related in the unpublished memoirs of one of his American collectors, Ruth Bakwin:
"After Maurice was born to Suzanne Valadon, she went to Renoir, for whom she had modeled nine months previously. Renoir looked at the baby and said, 'He can't be mine, the color is terrible!' Next she went to Degas, for whom she had also modeled. He said, 'He can't be mine, the form is terrible!' At a cafe, Valadon saw an artist she knew named Miguel Utrillo, to whom she spilled her woes. The man told her to call the baby Utrillo: 'I would be glad to put my name to the work of either Renoir or Degas!'"[8]
Thank you, SDR, Mat, JLD, Amanda, Sam, Gary, Emily, and Daniel! I appreciate all your comments.
Daniel: Yes, I love that story about Utrillo. Apocryphal but so great! Susanne Valadon! Amazing artist herself!
I love this and agree with Sam, these lines stand out for me too.
'Overhead, mawkish gulls begin to weep daylight into the marsh. The gutters blush as men in bloody aprons take their business to their walls.'
"Overhead, mawkish gulls begin to weep daylight into the marsh. The gutters blush as men in bloody aprons take their business to their walls. Priests in red robes bend their tonsures toward eternity, or so it seems to him, supine, head wedged against the bookcase, mouth agape, dreaming of fragrant dangers, feet splayed artlessly, legs perpendicular to the floor."
Beautiful sustained and expert.
Thank you, Ellie and Darryl, for your lovely comments!
I have to put a link to this on my FB page. I see you bending the page with the force of early drafts. This is poetry origami.
*
Excellent work. To think I almost missed it. *
Thanks, Gita and John!