Modi October Poem of the Month
MODI
Was it because you only painted nudes
in long voluptuous everlasting paint
swishing almond eyes, sheer erotica
expressing Woman as co-equal conspirator
– not just as contributor, almost for-the-first-time?
Art history treats you hard and plays up
the “Bohemian” and forgets the famously handsome Italian
Stylish, even in poor clothes – and always the perfect gentleman
as you complacently laid your head in the gutter
– you gave away more than you ever sold
swayed the likes of Beatrice Hastings, Max Jacob, and Katherine
while zeppelins bombed Paris and cynical intellects just got
bombed, or fled to Switzerland to invent DADA.
You demanded more wine, brandy or turpentine
and ignored the War raging while charming your models with
fantastic ease
and they tried to rescue you, tame you
– after 80 years you still make women jealous and man envious.
Your ‘best’ friend and dealer waited for your demise to
‘push up prices’ – paid you in canvas and drink, so
your last self-portrait saw through the narrowed mask
– an equanimity – holding your palette – your bronze corduroy
jacket and pale blue scarf – a subtle touch of ironic pity
For a detached self finally burnt free of passion.
Because – it all became too much – Because Modigliani,
you couldn’t be Jeanne’s “father”, and because she loved you
loved you, loved you – like a closed alley,
Because you had to kick the streets of Paris with Utrillo
and sold your Winter clothes for Drink –
Because life was a gift you threw away with talent?
And the real tragedy was Jeanne’s, two days after your death of
pleurisy – when with unborn – she plunged to meet you
like an ultimate signature.
Marc Murrell