Today I’m posting a poem with permission of the author Leslie Silton. This is not to be reproduced without her permission.
Ainsi, Henri Matisse (Thus, Henri Matisse)
Leaving port,
our painter’s ship is passing the last century’s threshold
with hardly a look behind.
There are still world wars to be lived through
and so many paintings – those curiously named savage beasts –
eager to burst out of their cages.
His heart is so full
that the hold of his ship is loaded to the waterline.
See him alone in his crow’s nest
with companion sky and wide ocean below.
You think he is looking for the horizon
but really he is seeing his hands in the near future
raising divine colored paper storms,
and hearing the glorious metal music of his scissors singing
as he hurries home to Vence,
to that port of final formal statement.
It’s getting late and the sun is going down
but he is raising sail yet again in his studio ship,
as he grabs the shears from his taboret:
Snip snip, they sing
and don’t anyone bother to clean up – I’m busy.
I’m an artist on a mission.
Death may be knocking at my door
I’m not finished yet.
The truth is: I know where I’m going at last.
