Modgliani And Akmatova Poem by Bernard Henrie

I raised myself, cooking and cleaning;
no complaints; wrinkled pinafore, a man's faded
work shirt and brown shoes like baked potatoes.

Mother taught me English and German;
she was forgetful, drafty as a Baroness, pretty
as a bird; she misplaced father.

Men. I liked them, especially the ones with Eau
de Cologne. They paid me to kiss, to sit on laps.
Men were nicer in those days. Now and then,
a young poet, the upper arms of a gondolier.

I drove my little Peugeot Landaulet very fast,
the boxy, soft-top cab a rippling sail.

Old Bonnard loved me naked; I took his little
notebooks, unfinished drawings; works I sell now
and then to tide me over.

I take night walks to Brasserie Lipp,40 watt bulbs
like a rooming house, rich cocoa smells, creams
addictive as tincture of opium.

You are only interested in Modigliani, rough cut
Italian Jew, almost uncouth, God, how I loved him.

He was in love with the Russian, Akhmatova- -
she was almost six-feet tall in stocking feet;
a wolf at galleries looking at everything, beautiful
gray-green eyes; she was slender like a horse rider.

I saw them on a bench of the Luxembourg Gardens,
not able to afford a seat. She never saw him drunk,
but I did, glasses of emerald green absinthe,
stumbling to his dark Impasse Falguière studio.

Winters, ice on my red cap, black trees; eyeglasses
blown sideways. Talking too much? Forgive me.
I admit some nights I sleep only with the help
of laudanum powders.

Anna said she understood his dreams, I choked
like a foie gras goose; dreams, but not demons
circling overhead in pearl gray hashish smoke.