Celia Stuart-Powles – Ⅰ
Vincent Van Gogh, Paris 1887, Spring
Out of the melt-stained earth
I itch with the green pumping,
The transition, the molt from mud
To knotty bud, trees’ breaking
Into wings, brushing the blue sky
With dabs of white, my hands sprout,
This glass quivers with rank
Stirrings: viridian and daffodil—
Le fey vert waves her wand
And voila: the artist leaps,
To chase her fluttering soul . . .
Cats prowl this season of love.
My heart melts: cubed-sugar
Dissolving in licorice light.
I pour through the clouds, dispel
Shadows inebriated—her spell
Sketching its magic on this—
My canvas: my heart.
On the table, four frames:
The Lovers and an ace (The Magician?)
Backs turned to this miracle
Of carafe and glass that hold
Enough light for a season—this genii:
Only my shoes weigh me down.