Saints. <br />Like swans, gliding untroubled so it seems <br />to us, lazing on the river bank <br />of a Seurat summer Sunday afternoon, <br />gliding over the surface of the waters <br />as love perhaps, on that first day; <br />they as floating symbols <br />of the beauty beyond beauty; <br />their work, invisible to us who watch <br /> <br />Painters. <br />Like waterlilies, resting in perfection <br />on the surface of the waters <br />as love rests, sure of their own beauty; <br />painting just the sunlight <br />falling on things, moving on <br />more slowly than we see; <br />the depth of the waters <br />in the painter’s mind and heart; <br />his work invisible to us who watch <br />his dabbing at the canvas <br />as a dabchick bobs in the water, his mind <br />moving as time moves; <br />for him, sitting at the canvas, <br />always time present, <br />in the water-garden already on his palette <br /> <br />Cataracts. <br />How far a word from <br />the stillness around him as he sits, <br />his beard a little yellow from the nicotine, <br />seeing the waterlilies as if for the first time, <br />but each year the water seems to tell <br />more about time itself… like Proust; <br />where is time going in this painting? <br /> <br />Eyes. <br />Cataracts, yes; but perhaps over time <br />they too have sought to serve him, <br />become themselves, impressionists, <br />presenting him with images <br />prepared like canvasses are prepared; <br />gently watering inner gardens <br />between the eyes and mind <br /> <br />yes, that’s Monsieur Monet over there; <br />don’t disturb him; but if you stand <br />a little way behind him, you just may <br />enter the stillness around him, <br />enter the stillness of his mind, <br />see with his eyes, that work <br />invisible to those of us who watch <br />which swans and saints and artists know.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-eyes-of-impressionism/
