Petals of an Alizarin Rose

“There is nothing more difficult for a truly creative
painter than to paint a rose, because before he can do so he
has first to forget all the roses that were ever painted.”—
Henri Matisse


Vigorous petals connect one by one to the core
of the colors alizarin and tangerine. At center violet
in bare flecks of thorns protects as shields
of legionnaires riding with spears and swords
into battle. Roses attract insects. It has sexual
powers beyond any human ride and risk.

It blooms with its own name bound
in salt of its bush, and when let wild,
flowers become smaller and numerous--
It wants to keep its life as well as give
birth to floral wreaths for dead lovers
risen over the blasted waves at night.

The sand crushes dead shells, and one
rogue flower with only scattered petals
left behind with rubies from heaven.

Scarlet, it blooms once upon a time when lovers
unknown to the other cross paths to nurse
momentary release -- that mirrored extinction
followed by redemption and then with drums
and howls strike, retribution bangs its terrified cry.

Enter one black rose. Impossible of course, but it
was cut and grafted many times, and in the dark
was invisible, and when you swallow it whole
you assume love for an instant then you
are bundled away in the spine of a Bible
left behind, forgotten, and you dry
hold form at least until terrified birds
in gyre come down out of the mountains
and ruthless they do not let you live.

Again assume atoms of roses as one
seed, one germ left behind so DNA
in its spiral rides one roller coaster
at least for now, but someday,
long down that pitched syncline
you will refresh and bloom again
from nothing but the maps
of cellular anatomy and you will
live forever perfect, and why
do you waste your breath to cry?

No tears left in the universe.
Alizarin rose fixed last to bouquet
at this sad instant we pray without shame
for red, deep red, vermilion, radish,
russet, mahogany, burnt sienna blush.

Every hue. Most values. Created tints,
Grayed colors add green to perfect
brown blood and more the jungle coughs
up beasts to mimic flowers and lipstick --
Her dark manicured nails painted
as her face in refined dyes
registered for that unusual rose,
dear Matisse. We are not ordinary
as we act our mimicry subtle like
soft winds changing over night.

We cut pieces of paper fasten them to the walls
of the National Gallery. There’s one rose
abstracted by accident, and it dropped
fluttering, glue dry out of sacred boxes
written about in the Hammurabi Code
in cuneiform and then interpreted by baal.

You don’t believe me. Here it is. Put
the petals of the rose to your face, darling
you will be the chorus of immortals
as one crafted flower made by accident
of nature -- not mankind
ran its lies in its grafted skin
and the suns of another universe
dimensions without and relative laws
will settle our lives in an instant when
evening waves surround the pedestal
of a mountain of rough, sharp rocks;
we don’t drown but swim in petals
while one rose ran away so ordinary.



END
_________________
Sean Farragher
http://seanfarragher.com