In Cezanne's Pyramid of Skulls the dead just are: they are done with squalls, politics, quarreling. Apples and jugs may squat on tables out of view, but here there is no loaf of bread. No vase of geraniums. No glass of wine. There are only the four skulls staring emptily at you, as if you were a photographer capturing a family picture. Christ does not levitate amid the brush strokes. There is no open prayer book. Each skull is as solid as a peach or a crop of rock. There is nothing the observer can do. As Cezanne would say, everything has been arranged. Bob Bradshaw This poem was previously published at Eclectica. Bob Bradshaw is recently retired, and living in California. He is a big fan of the Rolling Stones. Mick may not be gathering moss, but Bob is. Bob's work can be found in many publications on the net, including Apple Valley Review, Eclectica, Loch Raven Review, Peacock Journal and Pedestal Magazine, among others.
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April 2025
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