(After Vilhelm Hammershøi)
A still life created not by paint
but what is beyond the window
where they are flaying a deer,
across the courtyard in the stalls
drinking aquavit, slapping backs
and singing bawdy songs.
Blood pools under the carcass.
Late flies cluster on the new pelt.
Along a forest path, leaves stir
with long-departed footsteps.
Smoke rises from the valley.
By the lake, urgent lovers kiss
under clouds pressing south
where a boy king is crowned.
Factories smelt shining miracles.
Ships load with dark cargoes.
A city falls to a bored army
with hungry, unruly canons.
A century of noise commences
the way it means to go on.
Yet this day is framed by Ida,
the artist’s wife, turned toward
the lilac wall in faint symmetry
with the Delft blue tureen,
the back of her neck, her hair
gently unbraiding with static,
sparking a million revolutions.
Published in Shearsman Magazine (137 & 138)
Mark Fiddes 