I heard of a friend who'd passed away, heading overseas
Away from the steps that my mother scrubbed, serving on her knees
I read of a life taken still at just on twenty-three
In my mind to set, what his contemporaries believed
You wonder in a quarter of a life could a voice be heard
Without the span of time ahead could resonance reverb?
Those who take the longer path whose life approach full term
My mother, Giacometti, Picasso, are they steadier, starboard to stern
Rough edges, disfigured smile, chisel features, irregularity
A clown, a jester, a bobble headed cap
Fallen over, fallen off of the machine
Doubtful of deceit
Caught in the rotary movement
The central strut and beam
A note impressed her
All is over, or so it seems
He, the gentlest of guys
You didn't know him then or now
How could you
Art was his only receipt
Seated bather
Sat beside Picasso
(Still life with a bottle of Marc)
Ponderous beauty
Without an obvious way to enter
Curved, straight, geometric-cone
Sphere, ball, smoother stone
All identity removed
All emotion removed
Stood still; upright and straight
Defiant
Reds, browns, yellows, oranges, greens
Cream, did you say cream
These were your colours were they Z-B?
Modigliani, Matisse, Alexander Archipenko
Auguste Rodin, Rodin did you say
And these were your eminent contemporaries Z-B?
I step sideways besides a Giacometti
Forwards, there a Pablo Picasso; Tête de Femme
Sideways Giacometti, straight ahead Pablo Picasso
Slow down, stand back, take a breath
At the entrance, on the wall - a self portrait
The pastel chiselled features of a most attractive younger man
A short life, she the second part of your name
A woman almost twice your age, such life in a short life
Home thoughts from abroad, in your own self portrait
Context: Your contemporaries live forever
Pretext: The war came, you never…
