Gauguin

1. Eve

The Courtauld. London and Spring.
In a chill city, from a damp wall,
Naked, your Tahitian vahine
Stares straight out. Sullen, savage,
Her heat palpable, you set me
Writing only to lapse frustrated:
If we can't gorge as on sweetmeats,
Or screw her like our blonds...
This--undispersible--this beauty.

2. The Marquesas Islands, 1902

Paris, family, position, all fled.
Even Tahiti too tame.
Ensconsed in a bamboo hut, his legs
Laying him up, he sits for death
To arrange in its pose. NOW,
At his lethargy disgusted,
Rising, prowls the exclusive air...

Alone as the original alone may be.
Almost like wind, or fingertips,
The slow, familiar iciness.
Too-loud, he grasps for reference:
"Mette, bitch who stood my crotch
Stiffer than all these burning,
Dark girls, Mette, you hurt me."

Yes, it is now down to this.
A yellow photo of Mette's severe
Face. A single, crusted plate.
The canvas of the orange dog stuck
Among breadfruit in a corner.
Gauguin stops in the room's center.
The cur, in last light, glares.

3. May 8, 1903

The natives in half-whispers pass
Wonder among themselves, for Gauguin
Is dead. They say the magic of his
Painting was this light. A glow--ignored,
Or on a different wavelength
From the official tagging the canvases--
Draws a cluster of faces
To the window at the long hut's rear;
On the easel, this exotic scene,

A Breton village luminous under snow.

4. NEVERMORE

Through this portal, a frame
Of old wood, a naked
Tahitian vahine
Stares out. Lying on her

Left side, hip swelling,
She sulks, for Gauguin has bullied
Her to remain still.

Ignorant of the world
Festering beyond the crystal
Of her island's shore,

She drifts. And he,
FASTER, FASTER,
Shoving her toward the future
For all who will see.