a rumination on rain
by richibi
_________
since last November the days have
been short, and have not hastened
since winter to be longer, not
helped either by the most recent
time change, more than anything
a biannual irritant
nor has the rain stopped, apart from
a few clement days, its persistent,
often pounding, onslaught
that’s me, above, expressing my
displeasure
as usual, in distress, I turned to art
to see, or hear, what others might
have to say about my current
dilemma, my chagrin du jour, if you
like, in this instance, the Erte on rain
took the sting out of the raindrops
others had inspired, a Gauguin,
unexpectedly grey, but haunting,
a Monet, of course, equally sombre,
who painted in all weathers
Constable, uncharacteristically
angry, was looking a lot like
Turner, but more direct, accessible,
less oracular, more matter-of-fact,
sensible, reading only the weather
in the weather
Winston Churchill, of all people,
gives us, incidentally, something
in between
a 1900 Paul Mathiopoulos appealed
especially to my sense of poetry
among the artworks I perused,
someone I’ll have to further, for his
tender homage to perhaps other
colours than orange, explore
a John Atkinson Grimshaw, another
to me unknown, does a similar thing
in, essentially, a monochrome, with
a fine mist standing in for ethereality
Miró is ever up to his old tricks,
seeing rain among the other marvels
in his idiosyncratic playpen, if you can
find it
but Erte catches best of all my desire
for irony, sardonicism, self-criticism
in music I couldn’t think of anything
other than Beethoven’s “Der Sturm“
to temper the weather, despite the
fact that rain hadn’t been ever his
inspiration, the title came from his
publisher to increase sales,
Beethoven wrote pure music,
abstract, never specifically literally
to describe, what is called program
music, his descriptions, his
evocations, came unadulterated,
untransliterated, from the heart
in literature nothing beats Somerset
Maugham’s short story, “Rain“, a
masterpiece of intrigue as well as
literary prowess, searing substance
married to superb style
the book was duly made into film,
and several times, with Gloria
none of these slouches
the clouds have now coincidentally
dispersed, the metaphorical ones,
not so surprisingly, have been
meanwhile displaced by my retreat
into art, a recourse I’ve found to be
always dependable, and, yet again,
in this otherwise grim environment,
diverting and trustworthily inspiring
I wish you consequently, also, for
similar reasons, art, a salve along
life’s often obstreperous journey
Richard
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