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Pont des Arts

By Richard Jones Poetry

The pain passes, ——but the beauty remains.                             —Renoir Wandering the Musée de l’Orangerie with my sister, we find a bouquet of roses painted in 1878 by Auguste Renoir, voluptuous white roses placed in a red velvet chair. My sister says Renoir’s last word was “flowers” and that toward the end of his life he…

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Fauré in Paris, 1924

By Floyd Skloot Poetry

Nearing eighty, Fauré has found the end of sound. He never would have guessed it had so much to do with the Mediterranean light of childhood, or lake breezes swirling all summer at Savoy, and so little to do with music growing quieter everywhere but in his mind. He is relieved to hear the garbled…

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Into the Chambres of Dora Maar

By Allison Funk Poetry

His voice nearly gone _________________(add enough water and pigment thins) she’s listening to the plainsong of doves in the garden, ______________________their__ you__ you __you calling her slowly back to herself until she’s jarred by laughter coming from ______________________________who is it below her window facing the avenue du Général Baron Robert? Footsteps. Three knocks at the…

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