As I often do, I randomly
opened a couple of books
from the shelves
& in both instances
caught mentions
of Cezanne.
My sight is playing up,
& my right eye
is pretty well shot
with its gauzes
and drifting
thumbnail moons,
and there’s nothing much
of Cezanne’s palette
in them. But I am
all interiors
at present
while longing
after plein air.
One instance was a poem
by Douglas Barbour —
an acquaintance who
became a friend after
I heard him perform
in Perth in warm weather,
eventually greeting him
on frozen ground
in Edmonton,
snow flatly
immanent.
Douglas passed away
five years ago, but I see
past this — my eyes die
so people might live
inside and outside,
not stuck between.
We weren’t close
by any means,
but then nor am I when
I stand near a Cezanne,
so many viewings later,
wearing so many imprints
of those who
never knew him.
.
John Kinsella
.