Le Vieux Moulin

on the painting by Soutine

Cerét rolls over on a bed of flame
exposing an inflamed intestine turning
in upon itself. The garden’s burning
and the mill sags fallow on its frame.

Upheaval. Earthquake. A volcanic flow.
The bleeding mansard roof beguiles the plaster.
Permanent mementos of disaster
crack the lacquered surface high and low.

And on the yellow hill a gangling devil
relishes the foliating sky.
Impasto gray and blue surmount the wall,
a broken window taken for an eye.

A wheel unwinds. The leaning block and bevel
slide to the consoling balm of fall.

Museum of Modern Art
New York City

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2 Responses to “Le Vieux Moulin”

  1. Mrs. Chili Says:

    love.

    I was just telling my intern the other day, as we prepare to teach a poetry seminar next semester, that I never quite got the hang of iambic pentameter. Want to Skype into my class in February?

  2. Rick Says:

    I might be able to swing that. But this would be a very bad example~,:^)

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