Monet was smoking mad.
The critics had lambasted
his “Sunrise, Impression”
wondering why he painted fog.
It was simple. It was there.
He painted what he saw.
And he saw mist
clearly.
Anything else
would have been a lie
to the eye,
to the reality of light
as it reflected off
the burned-off
change in atmosphere.
He wanted to paint outside,
because outdoors
was waiting for him
like a nude model posing,
impatient to be elsewhere
where light would be different
and difficult as a lover.
He declared to show them
lack of clearness, huffing
and puffing, like a pipe
about to go out
until you draw it in deeper.
His face was red
as a vicious sun
about to melt the surface
of the Themes,
until it boils steam
cabbage.
He marched dramatically
into the train depot,
a man with a purpose,
a man whistling hot
as a tea kettle loosening its hiss.
He was mumbling a mantra,
no one could see anything in it...
He was determined to straighten them,
they want to see things clearly,
even in a fog
ready to show them something
foggier.
He steamed into the depot
Gare Saint-Lazare
announcing himself
as The Painter, Claude Monet.
The head of the western offices
did not want to admit
he had no knowledge about art
and all he knew was schedules, or
switching tracks
like changing pants.
All trains were halted.
They waited, stationary.
Like a man waits for a woman:
impatiently. The smoke was dense
as night in a tunnel.
The smoke was thick from the engines
so you could not see anything
unless you knew it was there.
When his painting were sufficiently soot,
heaving engines of spewing darkness,
he took his 30 complete works
like a conductor collects punched pickets,
as if his journey was completed,
as if his signature smoldering said it all.
By Martin Willitts, Jr.
Martin Willitts, Jr.’s tenth chapbook is The Garden of French Horns (Pudding House Publications, 2008) and his second full length book of poetry is The Hummingbird (March Street Press, 2009). He co-edits www.hotmetalpress.net.
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