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The angel stands, not in the water
of the flowing pool, where the four cherubs
frolic, but on a lonely slab of cracked cement.
And surely, as she reaches outward
toward an unreachable lamppost—
where joe-pye weeds line the garden wall,
and it is always moist, especially in summer—
the daisies flutter at her with their ostrich-eyes.
A part of her hair has eroded away. A part of her
right hand is broken, yet the grass is
green as the Emerald Isle. And in September,
the coneflowers accent the white garden gate.
The wind chases certain oak leaves through
deepening shadows, through expedient
patches of navy blue shade.
But the wind blows most of the leaves away,
and sometimes, after the rain, the sun casts
elongated rainbows on the sculpted path,
perhaps even, on the chestnut orb of a pumpkin,
or on the gourd that sits near the angel’s cooling toes.
Once cuddled by ivy, the statue stands forgotten,
up to her knees in the drifts of a late winter snow.
Icy cherubs gaze toward the stars. Then crocus
appear, and daffodils emerge from the melt,
their yellows as soft as a neonate.
The springtime sun seems still innocuous,
when Flowering Cherry-petals become confetti.
The angel wears, on her cheek, tiny droplets of rain,
a smudge of petal-pink for blush.
She’s been crying but pretending she wasn’t.
first published in Mastodon Dentist
See article in the Winston-Salem Journal
FERRARA.
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fr Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fr Pandolf'' by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fr Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
“Over my lady's wrist too much,'' or “Paint
“Must never hope to reproduce the faint
“Half-flush that dies along her throat:'' such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart – how shall I say? – too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace – all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, – good! but thanked
Somehow – I know not how – as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech – (which I have not) – to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
“Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
“Or there exceed the mark'' – and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
- E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
Among my favorite college memories is Professor Larry Dunham reading this poem in an English Literature Survey Class at Missouri Southern State University (then College) in 1967. Sun poured in through the open windows of the third story room at high noon; I fell in love with poetry; tears streamed down my face.
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