Landscape at Collioure, 1905
~Henri Matisse

(The last line of the poem is also Matisse's:  "From the moment I held the box of colors in my hands I knew this was my life.  I threw myself into it like a beast that plunges towards the thing it loves." 
                              
This hillside's the shade of grape soda,
lawn an ooze of electric jaundice,
and the sky's a violet slither.  The red,
blue, and green trees are dancing, supple
and sinuous, and the leaves are singing, a riot
of light.  He squeezed out red-orange like plastic
explosives.  Painting is an act of belief.

Model in the Artist's Studio
~Raoul Dufy
 
This model is zaftig, even hefty by today’s standards,
fleshy thighs, round belly, ample curves.  Bottom
heavy as a ripe pear.  But she is bien dans sa peau,
doesn’t go to Weight Watchers, had a café crème
this morning, broke her croissant into small pieces,
dabbed it with confiture d’abricot, little bits
of sun.  She took pleasure in the moment.
So when Dufy posed her, arms behind
her head, solid hips jutting right, there she
was, delectable as an oyster, ready to be
consumed.  And here we are in our imperfect
flesh, the dimpled arms, the parts that jiggle,
the great softening, as we succumb to gravity,
our last lover.  So let’s raise our arms above
our heads, let the world see the pudding bowl
our bellies have become.  These hips have carried
babies, these thighs have walked many miles.  This
is it; it’s not going to get any better.  So let’s stand
in the cool light of this blue room naked as the day
we were born.  Let’s tip our breasts to the sun,
and love our unairbrushed surgically unaltered
exquisite bodies for what they are:
the houses that we live in.​