Against a coral backdrop,
anemones spiral out
of a wine carafe,
still life with fruit, while
in the foreground, a different
kind of peach, too pink,
too plump to be attractive,
Doris–unclothed &
unfamiliar with subtle
shades of elegance–shivers,
wearing but a string
of pearls, her flesh not
firm, but abundant.
Her hands, folded self-
consciously over
a patch of color,
light & fanciful
as Colette, at once
intimate & obfuscate
the curlicued waves of hair.
Every flowing curve
spills onto the bare wall. No
Monet, no Renoir, but framed
by open window,
nondescript
houses
outline a beach shimmering
with shells, pagan deities,
desires, bright yellow
butterflies & swirling sun.
Deep in the forest
of masts, their sails in full bloom,
a rowboat splashes
through the speckled blue.
Oarsmen with bold, vigorous
strokes thrust the small craft,
a geometric
abstraction tilting
across the waves’ mythic claws,
ever closer to the point
of unrecognizable
yet ordinary folks, backs
turned, fishing at the harbor.
Clouds swan toward the horizon,
dark as the robe draped
over the red oak
chair beside Doris,
whose breath & almost
aquarelle eyes reveal not
only ennui, but
also a foreboding storm.
anemones spiral out
of a wine carafe,
still life with fruit, while
in the foreground, a different
kind of peach, too pink,
too plump to be attractive,
Doris–unclothed &
unfamiliar with subtle
shades of elegance–shivers,
wearing but a string
of pearls, her flesh not
firm, but abundant.
Her hands, folded self-
consciously over
a patch of color,
light & fanciful
as Colette, at once
intimate & obfuscate
the curlicued waves of hair.
Every flowing curve
spills onto the bare wall. No
Monet, no Renoir, but framed
by open window,
nondescript
houses
outline a beach shimmering
with shells, pagan deities,
desires, bright yellow
butterflies & swirling sun.
Deep in the forest
of masts, their sails in full bloom,
a rowboat splashes
through the speckled blue.
Oarsmen with bold, vigorous
strokes thrust the small craft,
a geometric
abstraction tilting
across the waves’ mythic claws,
ever closer to the point
of unrecognizable
yet ordinary folks, backs
turned, fishing at the harbor.
Clouds swan toward the horizon,
dark as the robe draped
over the red oak
chair beside Doris,
whose breath & almost
aquarelle eyes reveal not
only ennui, but
also a foreboding storm.
From Walking in Chicago with a Suitcase in My Hand (Knut House Press, 2016). First appeared in Interpoezia.
Note: While the painting described in “Doris in the Altogether
by the Sea” belongs entirely to the realm of the imagination, it resembles
Dufy’s Amphitrite. Indeed, much of the language for the poem
owes to the depictions and analyses Alfred Werner provides throughout his great book Raoul Dufy.
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