Channeling Grace Hartigan
I’m letting go of a life set out for me. A bloodletting,
this letting go my blood. Appetites for brush and canvas whetted
by a muse, spur in my side. I’ve spurned excess, envisioned
how color knows truth, am emboldened, beholden to my muse,
my curse, cursory tendencies of stroke-slash, violent,
virulent. I paint. Through ice-cold, isolated, must catch up,
catsup-water my soup. Splatters of ink, my inklings
are spattered. I scorn tradition, trade guarantees for guesses,
canvas messes of cadmium, viridian and violet, ochre aching
to gold, this matter is mine to divine, my soup to slurp-slosh,
no slip-shod reverse to the past. I am painting my life, a future
flaunt of yellow, flagrant in a folio forever
for those who might look.
Waking Early
Waking early in Paris, anticipation
mingles with doubt. Quickly
I draw myself—naked,
reflected in the mirror then paint
slowly, use only yellow, color
stains on cold-pressed paper.
I sip coffee, lay myself
out to dry.
Decades ago, I trailed after my father
to worship Cezanne and Van Gogh, watched
in these French cafés, him sketching
patrons, the woman with a dog, two men smoking—
Pied Piper with a pencil, stained
khakis, hair uncombed, breathless
with excitement, a mad man
gesticulating, crazed
by his visions.
Dazed, I rinse my brush,
cover the paints and reach
for a sweater, loose yarns
unraveling, unraveling.
