Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SONATA: 3. ANDANTE SERIOSO, by JOHN ERSKINE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SONATA: 3. ANDANTE SERIOSO, by                    
First Line: Women and men, dumb before my pictures
Last Line: Earth cannot, nor the ocean, nor the sky.
Subject(s): Art & Artists; Models


Women and men, dumb before my pictures,
Baffled, or whispering hand to mouth their crude
Indecent wonder at such things from me --
Are these the eyes we paint for, these the hearts?
It is my life, I know now, they would choose
To look at, not -- even if they could -- my soul.
My painter too; I watched him gazing, gazing,
Like the sun rays that drink the water up,
Looking for something as he used to stare
Out of his empty, silent head at me
Poor little man, to look for. Well, perhaps
Poor little man, to look for. Well, perhaps
Here's the exhibit when we show our things,
Not the thing painted nor the way we paint,
Rather who comes to look, what states of mind
Unveil themselves and publicly confess.
That's the hard thing in posing too, to watch
The painter's soul disrobe, ill-nourished souls,
All bones, just covered with a wish to paint.
My painter with his swan! Too like the way
Those creatures in the zoo cling to their cage,
And look with sad and all but human eyes
Out of their fatal prison, out of themselves.
He had the look -- the gaze he turned on me,
Blind to my body, wistfully betrayed
That slow, dumb panic. "Pose no more," said I,
"For pity, see this nakedness no more."
They whisper sly amazement how at all
Beauty for any eyes could stand revealed;
The question gives their furtive heart away.
"Landscapes!" said one, "Why landscapes?" Why, indeed!
Leda would please her more -- not the divine
Wonder I could have uttered in the myth,
To see love heaven-descended in disguise,
White and with wings, soft, smooth, and terrible,
Beyond resistance and beyond belief --
Not this; but could she look with the swan's eyes
On that clear loveliness, and then on me,
And think, "She was a model, not divine
But just as frank, and beauty now to her
Is what she paints, fit for a god!" -- Dear soul,
What eyebrows would she raise, and yet be pleased.
How I could paint the glory that we wear,
That never in the roadside passes by
But stirs us to the rhythm of a step,
But starts the image of a golden world!
I could; yet what we love to the extreme
We find a word for, not the thing itself.
Language surrounds our loves; the passing form
That stirred the heart-beat with a joyous step
And called the dignity of whiteness up,
Oh, paint the form and see the golden world!
But if the body haunts me, and no more,
Something which means the body let me paint,
Something wherein it dwells. We know not why,
But by itself life is unutterable,
Yet will be teasing, as a beauty seeks
Her portrait in the passion she inspires --
"'Tis but this pretty gown you like me for!"
"Can I forget the beauty it conceals?"
"Ah, me, loved for my body only?" -- "Love,
More for the flame within that makes you fair!"
"Mystical lover, would you take my soul?"
"Oh, I would take it always as it is,
In that soft loveliness my love can touch!"
"Ah, my poor body, praised at last!" -- "Love, praised
Far, far too little, had I Indian pearls
To praise with, and the purple robes of queens!"
Oh, I would live superbly and delight
In every garment that the soul puts on,
The sound of voices, and the touch of hands,
Lips absolute for passion or caress,
And body exquisite to awe-struck eyes;
Yet for the larger garment, O my heart!
That here we wear -- this earth and sky and sea,
Waiting upon us with their gift of tongues --
How could our grandeur speak without these hills?
Without these meadows and midsummer trees
What drowsy peace would die in us untold!
Never without the ocean could we say
What harbor, what far land, what gallant ship
We know of, and our heart set to go --
And who could utter beauty without stars?
Speak in this language -- ah, and who will hear?
So few, so few! I see the curious eyes
Studying as though the pictures were a scroll
Marked with lost symbols or designs insane.
Yet there the path is written, and the end;
From silence first, through silence into speech,
And afterward through speech to loneliness --
Something this world we love so cannot say,
Earth cannot, nor the ocean, nor the sky.





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