Homage to Camille Pissarro

Pissarro, beloved Impressionist of the Seine,
Whose pictures were soaked in the blood
Of slaughtered animals by the mad Prussians,
Was no less a man for ignoring war.

Pissarro, who smiled privately, sketching
With burnt matches guileless Manet
On the table tops of Parisian cafes.
Pissarro, beloved friend of Monet.

Pissarro, who lingered in falling Paris
Under Prussian guns, who escaped death,
Fleeing without fifteen hundred lovely canvases.
Pissarro, beloved Artist of Le Havre and Honfleur.

Pissarro, whose wife bore him children
He could not feed, who desired to quit to
Live honorably, knowing there was no honor,
Not for Pissarro without beauty and light.

Pissarro, whose humor saved all his friends
But one, Bazille, who could not be saved
From Prussia’s brutal aim, from his honor,
Inflicted as he was with Pissarro and love.

Pissarro, beloved child of God,
Was no less noble than the aristocratic Degas,
Nor nobler than the laughing stock of Le Havre,
The darkly quiet miniaturist, Boudin.

Pissarro, exiled to London, unloved,
Scorned there for cowardice by moral men,
Who felt nothing for Art, nothing for Man.
Pissarro, courageous pacifist of France.



TS