The Primitive Painter

He was leaning against the wall, backed up

And staring through fumes of gin and whiskey,

Glaring at all the toffs, dressed up

And ravelling through his sordid history.

 

But never a sense of ‘us’ with him

He was more like a raging arcane animal,

Caught and caged, as they looked right in

To poke and pry at his painted trammel.

 

Oils and charcoals, water colours,

Pinned like an insect by their gazing,

Pointing fingers would rape his skin

Pick through his pockets, grinning, gaping.

 

What would they know of his woods and fields,

The towering oak, or the dew at dawning?

Only the light that a lamp post yields

In the mean streets when the world is yawning.

 

Theirs was a world of tile and brick

Of diesel fumes and the rail line snaking,

His were the hills of hay and rick

The tumbledown cot and the farmer, raking.

 

‘What did you bring me here to spill?’

He said to the shyster gallery owner,

‘There’s nothing you couldn’t print at will

With a Laser print, and a barrel of toner.’

 

‘They’re coming in hordes to see your myth,

You’re a breath of air in a jaded Autumn,

A genuine Primitive, Jordan Griff,

I lured them in, and your work has caught them.’

 

But Jordan scowled and he curled his lip

As the crowd milled using an unknown language,

‘I’d rather be down at the ‘Rope and Skip’

With a pint of ale and a cold meat sandwich!’

 

‘You’re really an artist?’ said the woman

Who stood at his shoulder, pale and shaking,

‘I like the one at the farmer’s gate

With the girl, head bowed, as her heart is breaking.’

 

Griff looked deep in the woman’s eyes

For the chord she’d struck was his secret mourning,

‘How did you know?’ He’d sobered up,

‘I was the girl your paint was born in!’

 

Jordan halted his glass, mid-sip,

He seized her hand as his heart was pacing,

‘Years have slipped between cup and lip,

I’d give them all for a second tasting!’

 

He led her into a lumber room

And she locked the door as they pulled apart,

Then found some cushions and in the gloom

They lay on the floor there, making art.

 

That’s how his Primitives came to start

With a joy not there at his god-rot dawning,

A horse and cart with his palette heart,

And a tousled woman each tumbledown morning!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Dayran]

Sometimes when travelling on the modern highways we have these days ... complete with colour coordinated road signs ... measured for the exact size ... electronic boards, I'm reminded of life in the tiny roads that lead to one side of the highway and then continue on the other side.

In the sight of vision ... one perceives the old villages we used to drive through on the old roads ... before the super highway ... and yes ... it produces a gulp in the chest. What you bring to your poetry here is more than a gulp ... its an awakening. And I figure ... more people may be looking to the Opera house again ... as both an early clam design and modern architecture. Well done David ... kisses ...

[Angel]

Now, this one I did see coming...it had to end this way.
Ahh, but I am such a sucker for a happy ending...

[Baby Ricochet]

Now that's an art movement i could get behind

[A Soap Mess Stories]

Another great tale David! :-)

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

I can see the girl, at the farmer's gate, with her head bowed and her heart breaking, as he - the farmer - is leaving and walking out of her life. His mistake has haunted him through all the years; and no matter the fame through his painting, he is so wrapped up in the misery that he mixes in with his paints, that he finds no joy in them.

People are gifted in different ways; and at heart, people always have an essential core. That core, good or bad, happy or sad, will come to the surface in his work. If one truly desires to know an artist, all he has to do is look at his work and understand, truly understand it.

This poem is deeper and more intuitively emotional than most of your stories. For me, it's as if you have lowered your mask.

[mcg03002]

David,

I love to read your work. It's so full of imagery and ideas that are completely new to me. I read a lot, and I've done a lot...but each time I encounter one of your pieces for the first time, I learn something new and gain insight into life, love, and the human condition. You're a master when it comes to painting unique perspectives with words, and I truly appreciate your talent...and your willingness to share it with all of us here at the cafe.
As is usually the case when I read your work, I had to turn to my dictionary on several occasions in order to fully process this poem. The first time through it, I had only my basic understanding of the word "primitive" in mind...and so I pictured Jordan as "primitive" compared with the more sophisticated toffs mentioned at the outset. Then I became puzzled by your use of the word, as a proper noun, in the last stanza. I was missing something. Webster told me that a primitive is a pre-renaissance painter...or a pre-renaissance piece of artwork. I hope you know how much fun it was for me to re-read the piece and understand it in a completely different way (I say that because I can tell that you have so much information up in that head of yours that it probably isn't a frequent occurrence for you to read something and not catch the meanings of some of the words or phrases)
I also had to look up the word "trammel." Once I realized it was a type of net, I was tickled by your use of the word "raveling" in the previous stanza. You called it a painted trammel...which created, in my mind, an image of Jordan wrapped up in a net of his paintings. He was at the center of all his work, and all of the people pointing at it and criticizing (or admiring) it... seemed as though they were staring directly at him, and he couldn't get away.
I really loved the imagery evoked by your comparison of his works of art with insects, pinned to the wall by the stares of the folks in the gallery. I thought of those creepy boxes filled with pinned and labeled bugs, and It added a sinister element to something I would normally consider such a positive thing...people admiring the work of a talented painter. Your words effectively re-directed my perception so that I understood Jordan a little better. To him, the attention of the observers, who spoke about his artwork in the stilted language of presumptuous no-it-alls and wealthy socialites was unimportant and unwanted.
In the end, what excited Jordan was the inspiration that fate always seems to provide to a creative mind at the most unexpected moments and in the most surprising of places. Experiences like the one he had in the lumber room were the spice of his life...the subjects of his paintings. Women, dew drops, lamp posts, and fields...the things he encountered that struck him as beautiful, tragic, or both, had to be memorialized. He didn't paint for the sake of accolades or status. He did it because he had the heart of an artist...the heart of a painter...a palette heart.
Thanks so much for sharing, David. You paint the world with words.

[minisla]

Another wonderful piece David.

[Mark]

Your poetry talks to the heart like none other I've ever read, David. Imagine: disgusted, down on life, disparaging of and disparaged by the "toffs" who typically buy his work without a clue of what it means, then to stop by the very gallery that proffered his work only to find the very woman who inspired your favorite piece and proceed then to make up for lost time. That's wild, and not in the weird, "Twilight Zone" manner of much of your stuff--weird in a beautiful way! Thank you, Brother, for another winner.

[Marie]

There's nothing like primative art...really privative...