Portrait by Monet Uninvited

 

Claude Monet: Woman Seated Under Willows 1880

~by jeanne rené~

Portrait by Monet Uninvited

Breathing oxygen of oils and turpentine,
I waited,
Unfinished shade of monotone,
Left against a dusty wall
Gathering time
And moot dreams.

Until that night
He entered uninvited,
Scattering jars of exhausted brushes,
And crusted palettes in a fury of salvation.
Ripping moth worn drapery,
Pushing out stale air through cracked glass.

Lifting me to an empty easel
He postured gaily,
“Ah, gray child
You have stayed to be my masterpiece.”
And threw colors at my canvas.

“I will paint you as light, my dear,
Place rose red blush to your cheek.
Silhouette drawn with blossom lined path
Under the shade of old yews and muted greenery,
And a delicate bridge to linger the afternoon,
a crossing over lazy water lilies, will be my gift.”

In dreams
He creates without thought.
A dress of purple iris,
A cape of swaying poppies,
And tresses of yellow poplar leaves
dancing on an fitful breeze . . . his eye renders.

“I will give you dainty parasol clouds
Drifting above meandering rivers
And cliffs that greet the crash of sea waters.
I most important, child, I will paint you
As soft grass upon which lovers lie.”

... and when his arrogant breeze tickled my cheek,
Throwing brushes over his shoulder,
He contemplated the image.
Across the lips a smile of satisfaction played.
So to the window,
Looking for daybreak
Monet sent my portrait flying against a sky of brilliant blue.

Copyright jeanne rené 10/04 

 

 

~a woman's notebook~

 by jeanne rené

Two Women by Marie Laurecin 1883-1956

~a woman’s notebook~

this body mine
permissive
soft you say
fine downy flesh
i invite you
run your fingers over my willow arms
brushing back the silk-thin hair
and watch it fall back into perfection

please excuse this smile amused
as to what makes you think
i actually change my mind

child balanced upon round hips
strong pelvis
this body mine
the builder of men
these hands braced upon my physical fortitude
i invite you in

i paint my lips in shades of mona lisa mystery
and rest patience in my lap
until you see my cast iron bone
and ready bayonet
do not turn your back on me
to find i am the enemy of indifference
and that i strike with the intent of drawing blood

come
come surrender in my arms
drink my milk from swollen ready breast
wipe my tears
and bury yours in my hair cast across a scented pillow
let my body be a warmed coverlet
yours to rest beneath
but remember
i live the night with opened eyes

look upon my profile
follow the roman line of my nose
to once again the fine hair over my lip
and if you give touch to my quiet kiss
you will find the quake that lies deep within the earth

please excuse i stare at your look bewildered
to say only this in passing
~ absent the prerogative
i have had many a foot
placed grossly on my stomach
to hold me to a burial
but i am the loam
i am the rock
i am the fallen leaf
the worm
the brush
and the pregnant seed

to answer your question
the difference is
you do not see how much of a man
i am

~to these fathers, sons and husbands
i see all of me
that you hold inside

~and so it goes
with thoughts from a woman’s notebook~

copyright jeanne rené

 
 
 

~this scent of pine and meditation

 by jeanne rené 

Aside
these boughs twined of firefly lights,
baubles merriment and jubilee,
now lost in the scent of pine and candle wax
I assemble,
my thought
my sense. . . my wit about me

My meditation
impels me,
close my eyes.
Bids me listen
to the thunder . . . a voice soundless.
Commands me
release the hours,
pause and inhale a singular breath

. . . pause and inhale a singular breath.
Know me as I bring your lips to mine,
I release my word and swell your lungs,
in your waking . . . in your slumber.
I am the only current,
at once, the same, high and retiring tide

. . . quiet . . . listen
I am the rise and the descent,
holding nothing from your seasons.
I am ever the seeding,
ever the harvest,
birth and death as one

and duality

. . . quiet
I distinguish no celebration
for I am consistent in my bounty.
I credit nothing to translations,
or tongues,
your histories, or crusades
I am undivided . . .
absolute

. . . wordless
Close your eyes.
Hear,
I am the name of the child gone before you,
after you
and standing beside you. . .
the child whose hand you seek

In my rumination, this Christmas come,
midst song and celebration I find,
. . . in the hush, the whisper of the only breath

You are my primary colors,
the mixing of my forest and heaven,
the paints of my red soil and dazzling sun.
You are the blending of all hues and textures,
the threads of our kente,
the fine stitch of our quilt . . .
the laugh of the baboon,
the leap of the gazelle

And you are . . . simply present,
ever waiting
for us to exhale . . . 

copyright jeanne rené  11/08

Dance with Isadora ... by jeanne rené

Isadora Duncan’s dances by Arnold Genthe, 1919

                                           
 Close the distance
I tire
Of racing along side the frenzy
Baiting the magnificent
To consume me
But running shielded
In the sobriety of word and deed
Deadening the propensity of the passion

I must plant my feet in dreams
Let me hold
To the path of the fury
That it might overtake me
In an instant of irreversible finality

Let it snap my neck
In a act of simple punctuation
One by one tearing these flailing limbs
From my sanctity, my sanity
Pitching them upward
And
In the silence of the eye
Dropping onto soft pillows

Let my heart be decimated
Each atom cradled in the arms of the wind
Each dot kissed by the breath of the Almighty
And propelled beyond His galaxies

Torn from regret
Let my soul dance with Isadora
Upon stars undiscovered
Adorned in the rapture of many colored scarves
Whose silken threads kiss the inside of our thighs

And now
Chasing my dreams
Watch me
Surrender to the winds 

© jeanne rené 4/04