Rembrandt and the Great Drought
–the last self portrait
Before your birth, of course, the drought
that shriveled Europe, the fissuring that slipped
a shaggy noose around the fields you love
to cross. Why bring this vision to you now—heat,
fires in the willows—when what you struggle for
lies within what can’t be seen?
All morning I follow
your gaze, back and forth, self to mirror
to canvas. And your mumbling! The white beret–
too large, too white, erase it with a red one–
the brush and maulstick—paint them out—
the blacks—too deep—the face–
And when the drought
doubled, the Rhine became a grizzled rope
anyone could step across. Back and forth, back and forth.
You settle your subject’s rightward gaze
on the warm plateau of your own left shoulder.
I settle beside you.
What is amiss here?
Too much reverence in the countenance? Too little
irony? On the cobbles below your window, market-bound
wagons clack. Just for a minute I ride with them,
a little atmosphere in the passing day, in the humid
concentration.
You did not see the pale pond
moonlight made from dust, or how a band of cattle
walked toward the promise of its dry mirage.
Often I join them, mumbling word after futile word,
as light rays bend and distance shifts
and illusion’s restorative glaze eludes us,
withdrawing as we approach,
following us
when we turn away. You blow a little on the brow
and up it comes, the light that rises
from within–your signature—the light that lit
your pearls and pleated ruffs, the shroud
Christ slowly slid along—figura serpentinata–
down from the axis of the Cross.
Back and forth,
self to mirror to canvas, then the face
of your triumphant face, half turned to the future,
half turned to the past. No need for words
or anecdote, not need to watch—with me—
the drought-filled windmills stop
and the flocks
of redbirds, engorged on barrenness,
affix themselves to the sails. No need to imagine
the sound—before we were born–: great unmoving wheels
so dense with wings they—what?–
sigh as we approach, hiss when we turn away.
