Pierre-Auguste Renoir
Posted: 25 Aug 2021, 08:35
V2:
Pierre-Auguste Renoir
Fame had just moved in, like a stray dog,
when Renoir’s health began to fail,
rheumatoid arthritis crippling his hands
till they curled like the claws
of a bird gripping a thin branch.
A brush's handle pushed
into his closed palm, he leaned forward
from his wheelchair,
his brush poised
like a hummingbird
about to dart off into bright foliage.
He jabbed at the canvas,
sometimes holding the brush by two hands.
He became as frail as a lover’s note
held just beyond a flame’s reach.
Just ninety pounds, he beamed,
squinting at his Bather,
the darkness kept away
by her lush curves, her skin pinks and whites
like a Japanese flowering plum’s
ravished with light.
V1:
Pierre-Auguste Renoir
Fame had just moved in, like a stray dog,
when Renoir’s health began to fail,
rheumatoid arthritis crippling him.
Eventually his hands curled like the claws
of a bird gripping a thin branch.
A brush's handle pushed
into his closed palm, he leaned forward
from his wheelchair,
his brush poised
like a hummingbird
about to dart off into bright foliage.
He jabbed at the canvas,
sometimes holding the brush by two hands.
He became as frail as a lover’s note
held just beyond a flame’s reach
yet the world like his legs
could be ignored.
At ninety pounds,
he beamed, squinting
at his Bather as if through a keyhole,
the deepening dusk kept away
by her lush curves, her skin pinks and whites
like a Japanese flowering plum’s
ravished with light.
Pierre-Auguste Renoir
Fame had just moved in, like a stray dog,
when Renoir’s health began to fail,
rheumatoid arthritis crippling his hands
till they curled like the claws
of a bird gripping a thin branch.
A brush's handle pushed
into his closed palm, he leaned forward
from his wheelchair,
his brush poised
like a hummingbird
about to dart off into bright foliage.
He jabbed at the canvas,
sometimes holding the brush by two hands.
He became as frail as a lover’s note
held just beyond a flame’s reach.
Just ninety pounds, he beamed,
squinting at his Bather,
the darkness kept away
by her lush curves, her skin pinks and whites
like a Japanese flowering plum’s
ravished with light.
V1:
Pierre-Auguste Renoir
Fame had just moved in, like a stray dog,
when Renoir’s health began to fail,
rheumatoid arthritis crippling him.
Eventually his hands curled like the claws
of a bird gripping a thin branch.
A brush's handle pushed
into his closed palm, he leaned forward
from his wheelchair,
his brush poised
like a hummingbird
about to dart off into bright foliage.
He jabbed at the canvas,
sometimes holding the brush by two hands.
He became as frail as a lover’s note
held just beyond a flame’s reach
yet the world like his legs
could be ignored.
At ninety pounds,
he beamed, squinting
at his Bather as if through a keyhole,
the deepening dusk kept away
by her lush curves, her skin pinks and whites
like a Japanese flowering plum’s
ravished with light.