On Cezanne Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

It was the blue and lemon of Cezanne
The abstract planes of mottled green in the various trees
The dappled red of the roofs I wanted to keep
To myself
On Sundays without the museums
Like a second shelter
The first being God and his blue green world
My tiny apartments with his prints on the walls
And it hurt me when people said Cezanne
As if they were saying anything at all, tossed off
And scared me
when I couldn't remember the delicate sketches
He made of just green leaves daubed
I had glimpsed once when someone else was in a hurry
In the National Gallery bookshop
Come to me in dreams, oh green daubed leaves
Where there is time to think about leaf and the imagination
Of the leaf and why it is so cooling now and consoling
To catch one more shining glimpse of it
In my non theoretical mind.
As if that coolness could heal me now.
And I wonder beyond any possible sadness, mystified
How can the coolness of the rain daubed leaf
feel just the same as
In his painting so that I cannot tell at all the difference.
mary angela douglas 26 may 2024