Two After Pierre Bonnard, by Barbara Crooker

The Table, by Pierre Bonnard (France) 1925

The Table
 
All the pleasures of the table, spread out
on a white linen cloth:  one hard roll
nestled in a napkin, smear of butter
on a plate, grapes in a wicker pannier,
pyramid of lemons in a woven basket.
And Marthe, Bonnard’s wife, in the corner,
her faced turned in shadow.  Each object
is bathed in radiant light.  It’s momentary,
this snatched capture of food, wine, sunlight,
beloved partner, but doesn’t the transience
add to the pleasure?  Looming behind her,
the dark blue door of the future, where
all of this has vanished. . . . .
 
**

This was first published at Pensive.

The Almond Tree in Blossom, by Pierre Bonnard (France) 1947

 
L'Amandier en Fleurs

Every spring, it forces me to paint it, Bonnard said,
and in this last version, one week before he died,
the subject fills the entire frame.  There is no ambiguity
or irony; it’s the glory of this particular almond tree
and his delight in it.  Which is how I feel about
my little orchard, the one my husband planted
before went into the light:  two apple trees, two pears,
two cherries (both sweet and tart), two plums.  When 
they blossom, the hillside turns into a froth of surf, 
a mid-winter blizzard, a billowing tulle gown.  
When the bloom is over, petals rain down, pink and white,
spent confetti after the party is over.  And then, so slowly 
it’s imperceptible, the branches fill with fruit.  On the canvas,
Bonnard’s surfaces tremble; everything is in a sort of flux.  
As am I, selling this home of forty-five years, dismantling 
this life we built together, diminishing down to a small apartment.  
It’s only stuff, I keep telling myself.  But the yard and garden--
how I hope the new owners will love it as much as we did, 
won’t chop down the trees for easier mowing, won’t let 
the perennial beds return to grass.  In Bonnard’s painting,
dots of titanium white, cadmium yellow, cerulean blue 
become a dazzle of blossoms, exploding to fill the canvas, 
one tiny glimpse of what heaven might be like. . . .
 
**

Barbara Crooker

This was first published in The Paterson Poetry Review.
        
Barbara Crooker is author of twelve chapbooks and ten full-length books of poetry, including  Some Glad Morning, Pitt Poetry Series, University of Pittsburgh Poetry Press, longlisted for the Julie Suk award from Jacar Press, The Book of Kells, which won the Best Poetry Book of 2019 Award from Poetry by the Sea, and Slow Wreckage (Grayson Books, 2024). Her other awards include: Grammy Spoken Word Finalist, the WB Yeats Society of New York Award, the Thomas Merton Poetry of the Sacred Award, and three Pennsylvania Council fellowships in literature.  Her work appears in literary journals and anthologies, including The Bedford Introduction to Literature. 
www.barbaracrooker.com