Lydia Grigoryeva
Modigliani
In the attic, in the half-dark of cobwebs
a dead artist is drawing a picture.
A line to the right. Oblique.
Yellow paint. A white temple.
A naked woman wearing a red beret
is posing before him on a folding stool.
A line to the left. A line up.
There will be a picture – a success.
The painting will go on for years.
Children, neighbours, kindred have died.
The measured strokes of the dead hand:
”You see, only fools die.”
A white body. And blue paint
obliquely. A red brush stroke.
The artist is dead – he can barely stand.
His distant descendants will be enraptured
by the feast of lines, the paleness of her shoulder,
the bravery of genius and executioner.
Translated by Richard McKane
Page(s) 70
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