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Reflections on Monet’s Waterlilies

Andrew H. Oerke

If thoughts are reflections on life, dabbing down lilies
was just projecting his mind’s reflective mirror through
his eyes back onto the cloudy screen it picked up on,
so by now the brook was just a banner to smear paint on.
Man! this was everything gone Pollock-like agogo,
abstract expressionist images on steroids,
impressions bleeding beyond their margin of error.

His glaucoma soaked into the fibers of the
canvas, and as if a snapshot brought him to life,
as if a mirror could be our creator,
the oils were painting an old brushman laying
on images overlapping like metaphors mixing, which
sooner or later Poetry will say though awful is lawful
given connections are so fuzzy wuzzy anyway
and hybrid vigor invigorates the species and
“Whatever woiks, woiks,” Gospel according to Yogi Berra.

The way champagne inspires the body,
so paint and sailcloth possessed his grip
and bristle-shank, the whiskers whispering themselves
across the surface the way a waterbug skates across a pond.
This made him feel he was not alone in the world,
reciprocity the equal sign as the baseline for knowledge,
the equal sign as ex-nihilo an invention
as Justice, the Zero-factor, and the slap of metaphor.

The wand of his brush wove this way, that way, with
pigments ricocheting in a smear tactic of reflections
back to the suckered-in eye so easily snookered
it’s funny, it’s sad, and sometimes sublime
as in this case in which he rested his case on
reflecting on how beautiful life’s vagaries really are.

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