I would haunt <br />the Yeatss' <br /> <br />hunger for the nearness <br />of their paint <br /> <br />lose myself <br />in their ooze <br /> <br />the colours squirming <br />as if they could crawl <br /> <br />off the canvas <br /> <br />slither into my senses <br />until they inhabited <br /> <br />the teenager <br />who would visit them <br /> <br />again & <br />again <br /> <br />stand in front of <br />GRIEF <br /> <br />(because he knew what it meant) <br /> <br />always always <br />the paint <br /> <br />deserting the canvas <br />attaching itself to the ends <br /> <br />of his <br />nerves <br /> <br />so that he <br />became <br /> <br />NO FLOWERS <br /> <br />walking out of the National Gallery <br /> <br />into the stolen <br />sunshine <br /> <br />composed of nothing <br />but <br /> <br />their Jack B. Yeats <br />collection <br /> <br />my footprints dripping paint. <br /> <br />********* <br /> <br />JACK B. YEATS <br />(1871-1957) <br /> <br />PAINTER AND YOUNGER BROTHER OF WILLIAM. <br /> <br />GRIEF WAS PAINTED IN 1951. <br />NO FLOWERS WAS PAINTED IN 1945<br /><br />Dónall Dempsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/grief-no-flowers/
