the artist

The Artist

 

she was a goddess
curator of memories
a former of creation
she painted in our attic

 

I stood on a chair

to sneak a better look at

the dazzling stranger

standing by our gazebo

shaking hands with mum and dad.
 

Plaited in her hair,

a weave of tiny mirrors,

catching the sun’s rays,

code messages, semaphore,

like in Secret Seven books.
 

Dad let me down at

suppertime when he told me

she was not a spy

but just a ‘modern artist’

renting one of the attics.
 

I did not know love,

what it was or what it is,

but the artist stirred

something in my soul before

I even knew I had one.

 

Three flights above me

a cave of colours waiting

for me to explore.

An escape from school day grey,

On The Buses - beans on toast.

 

I crept the staircase

wanting a keyhole glimpse of

that magical place.

Her paintings filled the landing,

I knocked a couple over.

 

The door burst open,

“Do not touch! Do not speak! Sit!”

I found a corner,

“Do you like jazz?”  - I nodded,

hoping 'jazz' meant chocolate.

 

Ella Fitzgerald

wept from the artist’s Dansette,

“... I die a little...”

The artist wept too. Gentle

tears dropped onto her palette.

 

I watched spell-bound, mute,

as the seeming random strokes -

brush kiss on canvas,

imbued images with life  -

“Let there be... and it was so.”

 

My three favourites - 

a Scarborough holiday,

gazing at the sea

through a rain running window,

sulky daughter beside her.

 

Visiting Grandma -

in a stiff black Sunday dress

uncomfortably

sitting on a stiff-backed chair

dunking biscuits, drinking tea.

 

A derelict house;

(I reckon her childhood home)

behind a crumbling

facade she caught its essence -

a century’s history,

 

the births, weddings, fights,

home-comings and funerals.

World Wars One and Two.

It outlived them all - until

the day of the wrecking ball.

 

The artist moved on,

dumped her keys in a fruit bowl.

Mum and Dad have gone,

to lie in adjoining plots.

Not one of them said ‘goodbye’.

 

The paintings remain,

starkly etched in memory.

And as I reflect,

remembering the music,

Louis Armstrong and Ella,

 

especially Ella,

the attic’s hush is punctured

by my singing of,

Every Time We Say Goodbye,

and a fair share of sighing...

 

[this is written to tanka format - excuse the uneven spacing between stanzas, it cannot be helped]