There lived in Bohemian Paris a painter

And it was said that she only worked by night

Spending her days sleeping

Or around the bars of Montmartre

But come nightfall in her garret and by candle light

She tore, scratched, clawed and beat the canvas

Lavishing paint with savage rage and inner anger at the world

Born of poverty of despair of the sins of men and other women 

But it was said that the works once finished were peaceful

Serine, tranquil

Streets you could wander in, hills you could roam in

People captivating, ordinary, good and bad

And she never sold a single one

She was taken early as so many were  

Montmartre honoured her

As one of its own with flowers cast in the street 

And toasts of rough red wine

But not a single work could be found

And it was said by some

That the power of the pictures

Caused the images to leave the canvas

That you will find the places the people she painted somewhere

And perhaps you will also find her

Sauntering down a sunny path to a place that overlooks the sea

Or promenading down the street in Sunday best

Or taking refreshment in some Parisian bar

An opera was written of her tale

La Peintre Perdue, a sensation

That filled the opera houses of Europe

And it was said

That at the climax the voices erupted like tears from heaven

That streamed down the faces of the audience

An opera that does not exist today

There is no script no aria, no poster, no programme

And no dwelling bears a plaque

It cannot as she has no name

No reproductions are for sale

No galleries display her work

But when you go to Montmartre

You will remember La  Peintre Perdue

©LawRouge