I wrote the much shorter original version of ‘Enchanted Studio’ in Paris some years ago. Over the intervening years it has grown, became more focused and, of course, more and more self-revealing. The first post second millennium reading, at Strathfield Poets, generated some discussion and after taking on board comments made, I decided on an addition and a revision.

 

01: The Approach

 

I remember the quiet street and the neat, well cared-for

seven-storey apartment block, I remember the ornate

plaque mounted at the entrance, and the photograph and

the polished brass plate according honour and gratitude.

 

I remember the woman, the child, and a moment of hand

holding silence. I remember a solitary tear on the cool cheek

of a lovely stranger. I remember her resolute, measured tread. 

I remember the desolation in her smile, the courage in her eyes.

 

I remember the stone steps, the glass doors, and the odours

of coffee and absinthe.  I remember the eagle-eyed concierge.

I remember the clunking, groaning lift that climbed laboriously

up to the fourth floor, stopping there and refusing to go further.

    

I remember the dark, narrow staircase that marked the way,

floor by floor, to the roof where Gilbert and Claude and Justine

and Monique smoked dope, communed with spirits, and shared

the siege of Paris. Most of all I remember Paul’s enchanted studio.

    

02: The Impressions

 

Paul, smiling now, his new canvas unfurls -

the smoke from his joint around his head swirls -

where his view of the world, so clear and so sharp,

is the city of light, and life, across the green park.

 

Long strands of gleaming, a bright summer day,

caress gentle Giselle, at rest, where she lay

on silken cushions of bright blue, and rich gold,

her blood-red gown hanging, in carefully set folds.

 

The brown of her eyes, long hair of jet black,

curls that cascade to her neck and her back,

the turn of her shoulders, the toss of her head,

Paul trembles, mixes blue, gold, and blood-red.

 

That look that she gives him, her perfume, her grace,

the long arch of her back, her dark beauty, her face,

wild visions inspire him, he works on in a trance,

from the couch to the canvas bold images dance.

 

Paul is possessed, at his canvas he stands,

his heart and his soul guide the brush in his hand,

Giselle excites him, with her smile, and her eyes,

as he captures her breasts, and the nest of her thighs.

 

03:     The City Of Light

 

The spring rain as it falls, gathers light from the stars,

draws colour, from the quarter's bright, pulsating bars,

avenues, crowded, bustle, glisten and now softly glow,

where wide rivers of light, and life ebb and flow.

 

Paul, in the twilight, sets his fine brush aside,

tall studio windows he throws open wide,

the sun has surrendered to the mistress of night,

at the end of the day, in the city of light.

 

04:     L’envoi: [concluding stanza]

 

I remember Café Alsace; I met Monique and Justine for drinks.

We talked of the old days, of Gilbert, Claude, Yvette and Cecile,

of Giselle, now in New York, and of Paul, famous in Hollywood.

Images of Paris we share warmed our hearts. We have no regrets.

In a simple toast we raised our glasses: 'To all who can remember'.

 

 

 

From: An Evening ‘Au faisan d'or’ © Dermott Ryder November 2012