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"it's not what we sent you to college for" by Julia Deakin I called you Laurence Stephen - a plain enough name I thought, but dignified - and prayed that some day you'd be an artist like Dante Gabriel Rosetti. Dante Gabriel Rosetti, now there was a name to conjure with - and yes, he conjured goddesses. Full throated creatures, larger than life who filled the canvas with a sigh that left you breathless - - but what have you done? What do you paint larger than life? 'A mass of humanity'? A mess. Your figures hump-backed, scurrying, bent double... daren't they stand up straight, your men? Layabouts, dogs and grim hags at people's backs, like death. I paint what I see, mother. All these years I've waited for a sign, one line of artistry - and what have you given me? Smudges. Spoil heaps. Rivers like cesspools. Shiftless crowds. The eye directionless. Not making sense of the world - - then maybe it doesn't make sense - - you could have done so well. You used to draw but now you daub. You could have made your name, like Dante Gabriel Rosetti - poetic and angelic - now he could paint. Your landscapes sprawl. You speak for yourself, mother. I speak for millions, son. And cripples! What do you paint them for? Sometimes I don't know where to look. Then why don't you look at me, mother? Why don't you look at me? © Julia Deakin « Home | Contributor Notes » Please comment on this poem. |
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