Sonya's Visitors Poem by Daniel Brick

Some mornings
I talk to
Matisse
before breakfast.
It's very casual,
pajamas and café au lait,
and in no time
I have ideas,
so many he helps me
stash them in a secret
cupboard only we
can find. Then
he's off to meet
his Algerian muse
or his Hungarian model.
He waves to me
from the sidewalk
and leaves his footprints
in the freshly fallen snow.

Paul Klee sends
an angel
with a small breakfast.
He's so generous,
this Swiss magician
of the left hand.
But sometimes
he forgets his promises.
'I'll visit your studio
next Saturday - '
And he's off
without even waving.
Saturday arrives
but not Paul.
One of his angels,
looking sheepish,
is at the threshold,
wanly smiling, and waving
before lifting herself into flight.

In late morning
I have tea
with Erna.
Her eyes are heavy
with lost sleep.
'Every day is the same.'
She tries to smile.
'Kirchner won't settle
down. He's a bundle
of nerves. His palette
is a mess of colors.
Lately, he
stirs and swirls
them for an hour
or more, then sets
it down and disappears.
He's so good at vanishing.
What should I do, Sonya?
What can I do? '
I pour more tea.

'Where's Picasso? '
It's Apollinaire,
by himself
which is already
a crowd! He's
in a white suit
with a fresh flower
in the lapel.
'Marie gave it
to me, last night, '
he says quietly.
He walks up
to my wall of nudes,
stares at them
from a distance.
He fixes his eyes
on the one
with smooth pink skin.
'This one and Modigliani's.'

Apollinaire twists his body,
his eyes still fixed on the nude.
He collapses into
Robert's chair
and sinks into
his heavy thoughts.
Minutes go by.
Suddenly, he shakes himself
violently
and springs up.
'Where did you say
Picasso is? '
I recall something Breton wrote.
'He's nearby, Guillaume.
He's hunting in the neighborhood.'
Apollinaire is satisfied.
As he ambles off,
he hands me a letter.
'This was wedged in the door.'

'Dear Sonya,
it's late, so much
later than I realized.
you know -
I can't wrap my hand
around the brushes
anymore. My fingers won't
close tight like a fist
or loose like -
like what? They're putting
their paint
on my 'Blind Man's Bluff'!
I'm sure it's for the best.
But I feel so helpless:
every day I need
to renew my trust.
As ever, Max.'
I refold his letter
and place it next to 'The Ice Skaters.'

The afternoon
is rushing
into evening.
I am finishing
a watercolor
I started after lunch
with Van Gogh
looking over my shoulder.
He never says much
but his presence is
like a vase of irises
that shine brighter
as night encroaches.
I worry about Vincent,
but he just rubs
his huge calloused hands
together and smiles:
'Sonya, I'm so glad
you're a painter, too! '

It's past
five pm.
Robert has just
finished with his last client.
They are saying
good-bye in the hallway.
I hear the quiet
murmur of conversation
punctuated by occasional
bursts of laughter.
So this is the life
of an artist today!
Day in day out,
I put brush
to paint, paint
to canvas, canvas
to wall. And
it is enough....
Matisse is coming again tomorrow!