ONE

 

The picture of a wet, lantern-lighted Paris Street

In Montmartre flashed in Paul Cezanne’s

Dozing mind as the slow, steam train moved on

 

Down the granite-foundation line. Cezanne lay

His head against a bunched jacket on the window

Glass, closed his weary eyes, saw Emile Zola’s

 

Crowded-with-books apartment in Saint Lazare

The day before, and with Zola’s usual flattery,

Introduced Cezanne to the chatting people

 

There, saying how Cezanne was not just a painter

But one as talented as Courbet, and the next great

Painter from that rock-and-pine place, Aix-de-Provence. *

 

Soon the old, steam train ground down to pause

In that city by the Rhone river, the “Ville de Avignon,”

Where Cezanne raised up from his window seat,

 

Poking his head out, seeing the train taking

On more water—across the river loomed that

Gargantuan slab of boring castle architecture

 

Called “Le Palais des Papas,” back when Avignon **

Took the place of Rome during the 14th century.

But thoughts of Catholicism bored Cezanne, and

 

He was glad to doze again as the train steamed

On down the rusty tracks and along the metal

Lines he saw as a symbol of a vineyard trellis.

 

TWO

 

As he dozed, he remembered speaking to Claude

Monet, how Emile Zola must be given much credit

For his courage to seek a literary life in Paris

 

In the 1860’s, but to Cezanne’s shock, Zola had

Made his name, not as a fiction writer, but as an art critic.

Now, in 1878, Cezanne had to endure listening to Zola

 

(The evening before at the Cafe Guerbois in Montmartre)

Pontificating how Edouard Manet was the art world’s

Greatest asset since crepes and croissants—all the while

 

Fiddling with his now famous, but to Cezanne annoying,

“Pince-nez” glasses. Zola implying in every elegant

French word that he, Zola, was the foremost expert

 

In 19th century French art. Oh, sure Zola had studied

Art history, movements, theories, and sure, Zola

had wandered through “Le Musee du Louvre”

 

Many times, but Zola did not know the Louvre

As Cezanne did, for he had sketched the masters

A thousand times, and besides, Zola knew nothing

 

About the colors of paint under his finger-nails

That would not wash out, nor had Zola suffered

To see that empty white space on the glaring canvas.

 

THREE

 

The train rounded another screeching, metal corner,

Lurching Cezanne awake—he looked out, inhaled

The crisp, clean aroma of passing pines, rearing up

 

Vertically, a few leaning askew before Mont Victoire

Looming high many kilometers away. From the train’s

Window the valley lay out like a map, as precisely

 

Structured, as carefully woven as those tapestries

At the Chateau d’ Angers or in Bayeaux, Normandy.

Eyes squinting, Cezanne gazed out the window

 

Into the diffusing olive-green terrain juxtaposed

With sandy beige angles of rocks and boulders

Until his eyes grew foggy absorbing the shades

 

And hues and tones of earth along the winding

Roads in the valley far below, and as the train

Rumbled on, more pines leaned across his window,

 

Framing Sainte Victoire, where he and Zola,

As teens, had climbed many times, and as the train

Slowed for another curve, Cezanne turned

 

His face to see the far-away, ancient Roman viaduct

Slide into his window frame—the valley below

Sliding into his rectangular window—a living,

 

Organic canvas—and when the blocking hills opened

On the train’s western side, a beam of sunlight

Splashed golden into his eyes—blinding him—and

 

In the darkness, he saw a painting light up as if

Illuminated by a great candle, and as he rubbed his eyes,

He visualized the masterpiece he was going to paint:

 

“The Viaduct of the Arc River Valley.”

 

 

* Cezanne and Zola attended the same “college” in Aix-de-Provence.

** “The Palace of the Popes”