Sunday, 25 March 2012

Sunday Poem


Picasso's radio played music
that no one else had even heard yet.
Sitting in Paris in 1911
he was already listening to Bob Dylan.
He knew the Rolling Stones by heart.
He would say to Georges Braque, "Georges,
there's this really neat group called the Eagles,"
but Braque was busy playing Bach
on classical clarinet. "Gertrude," Pablo would say,
"you'd love this record called Blonde on Blonde,"
but Stein would give him a stony stare
and turn a deaf ear. So Picasso would go
back to his studio there in Bateau Lavoir
and turn up Beggar's Banquet loud, until Juan Gris
banged on the ceiling. Alas, when he moved
to bourgeois quarters in Montparnasse,
Picasso left his radio behind. He always wanted
to find it again, to tune into Tina Turner,
but some unscrupulous second-hand dealer
has hoarded it away in his basement
where every single night he listens to paintings
the world will never see.
From Dunino (1989) by Stephen Scobie.

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