Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, RAPHAEL'S MASTERPIECE, by JOSEPH MORRIS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

RAPHAEL'S MASTERPIECE, by                    
First Line: Come, raphael, I would have you paint me a picture
Last Line: Good day to you, sir!
Subject(s): Mothers


(A man of to-day gives the great painter a commission)

COME, Raphael, I would have you paint me a picture.
You have made some repute for yourself with Madonnas,
But now, sir, to your masterpiece!
Your hand must have more cunning
Than it ever knew daubing about church walls,
For this time you must paint with your soul.
The subject? There she is--
My mother.
Not a Gainsborough lady--I confess it quite freely--
Nor a Reynolds' beauty, but they were faultlessly inane,
With doll faces and dainty postures,
But no more reality than if they had stepped
Off of some decorated fan.

Are you squinting your eye there critically
Thinking she will not do?
Must you have something pretty
Before you can make it beautiful?
I would have you make something beautiful,
Divine--I said you must paint with your soul.

I protest, sir. What's all this toggery
You're decking her up in?
She never saw any apparel like that in her life.
You must have the right colors?
Indeed! Can't you paint things as they are?
The everyday clothes we've seen her in all of her life?
You object?
Well then, let her plain dress spoil the picture.
I won't have her turned into a popinjay
Or a court lady--I am simply asking you to paint
My mother.

Yes, I'll agree to the rocking chair,
Although it would be more natural to see her working.
Take that low one with the squeaky rocker,
Over there by the window.
No, you can't stick a poll parrot on her shoulder--
For one thing, she never liked poll parrots,
But little singing birds have always been a joy to her.
Here, put this old sewing-basket close by her,
With the dried gourd on which to mend stockings.
Don't forget her steel-rimmed spectacles--
They are always getting lost but just now
They are mixed in with the mending.
And paint the edge of this button-box--
Maybe it will give you some color
For it contains buttons of every size and description
From all the dresses and clothes ever worn by any member of
the family.
Yes, you can put an open book on the table
For she likes to read when she has time, and now--
Go ahead.

Why, painter, you're making her face as smooth and white as
an alabaster box!
You do not want her to look dried and cracked?
Your eyes see a lot of creases in her face
But I told you to paint with your soul.
Those are not ugly lines--they are tracings of sorrow,
And care and tired days and watchful nights,
And silent sufferings that she never said anything about.
Now that I look more closely, you have her hair all wrong.
Gray won't mix with brown in a picture?
Then, sir, the picture must be changed.
And those hands! Why, you've made them
Five-fingered lilies.
But they are much more beautiful as they really are.
They have washed clothes, week after week,
And dishes three times a day--
She never let them stack up from one meal to another--
And cooked and cleaned and scrubbed.
Change them, please. Have them rough,
And somewhat large, and then--
Show that they've done a thousand things
That no other hands in the world would have done
Because they loved others more than their own prettiness.

And the eyes, sir! You've made two colored spots
On the canvas. But you will have to dip your brush
Into mystic colors to catch their infinite lights and shadows.
And you have failed to show her remarkable wisdom.
You smile inferring you could puzzle her with a few
elementary questions.
I was not talking about knowledge, sir,
But she is love-wise and knows far more
Than philosophers ever dreamed.

I am too critical?
I am sorry.
It was foolish of me to expect you to paint
My mother.
No, don't leave the canvas.
I have a better picture--
It is in my heart--love is a truer painter.
Good day to you, sir!





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