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by Rick Mullin

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Pierre Bonnard predicted he’d appear
before the artists of our century
encircled in a wing-like filigree
of colored light. A mystic chevalier
exuding his incalculable pallet
as a benediction, he’d survey
the produce of the studios that day,
the fruit of every flashing brush and mallet.
He’ll find out there’s a lot of shit to read.
A lexicon of abstracts to peruse,
a currency of theory and critique,
and credos tacked to canvases with screws.
To glean a universal through the screed,
he’ll have to book the hotel for a week.

Rick Mullin is a journalist and painter whose poetry has appeared in several print and online journals including Measure, Unsplendid, and American Arts Quarterly. His chapbook, Aquinas Flinched, is available from Exot Books, and His booklength poem, Huncke, from Seven Towers, Dublin.

See links to all sonnets by this author

Pat Jones
Published 23 August 2011