Peter and His Meeting with Dali in Spain
He looked down at the moist freshly tilled soil
daydreamed an escape from this artless toil.
Remembered his brother back from the war
how he dug dark weeks till his arms were sore.
Thanked the Earth the end of this conflict,
carnage that this first world war did inflict.
America hide in isolation
judged everyone without reservation.
Him, Peter, found time to read everyday
Expatriates moved to Paris to play.
So in the barn away from his parents,
away from landlords who pursued their rents.
Peter drew and painted with all his heart
his soul filled with a passion for the art.
He saved his coin, every last dull penny,
moved to Paris with his hard earned money.
He studied the stroke of every last brush
drunk from the paints and pastels, an art lush.
He painted in a class taught by Matisse
befriended the artists of Montparnesse.
Over coffee he talked with Picasso
and over tea he communed with Miro.
Viewed a movie by Dali and Bunuel
decided he must get to know them well.
Moved by “The Persistence of Memory,”
to meet Dali on coast of Cudaque.
He packed his best paintings and headed to Spain
his head held high through torrential rain.
Found the ragged rocks of Catalina,
a vast endless creative arena.
His paintings securely tied to his back
a foothold here, his hands placed in a crack.
As he lifted himself up to his dream,
the bay below had diminished to stream.
Where he rested he looked out in wonder
at the amazing shapes made by nature.
He reached the top and decided to lay
next to a beautiful villa of clay.
He rose and walked slowly towards the door
struck by the simplicity of decor.
Unpacked his paintings displayed on the wall
out onto the vastness he gave a call.
A man of small stature strolled up towards him,
confidence through his pointed mustache trim.
In a thin robe he powered past Peter,
stared at the paintings to find their allure.
To Peter’s horror he began to toss
each painting down the cliff, no thought of loss.
Though Peter slumped down Dali picked him up
offered him wine from a porcelain cup.
He walked Peter to the edge of the cliff
looked in Peter’s eyes and said “Your too stiff.”
“Stay here and draw what you see everyday
the rocks of the cliffs, the water at play.”
“Draw from down here and not from there.”He said
as he pounded his chest and not his head.