Here’s a poem I wrote in the voice of the wife of Rene Magritte, the Surrealist painter. He painted her many times, in many different and often strange ways:
Madame Magritte Ruminates on Syntax
how he puts his world in order…
how he forms images from words.
Though he met me at the botanical garden in Brussels,
he paints me naked, lying on my back,
a large conch shell balanced on my flat midsection.
This artist/model dance enfolds us.
A halo of objects appears in the sky
grey glove, lighted candle, olive leaf,
dove, key, scrap of paper
on which is written “vague.”
He paints me naked, standing, turning slightly
like the Venus de Milo,
but red, beside red curtains, my red shadow.
He paints me blue, a dream figure.
He paints me holding his pipe.