Author Information
@ 27.055 MHz: Ad Astra; The Museum Attendant's Conversation
[Inspired by Constantine Cavafy's poem, "The
Souls Of Old Men"]
One wing of the museum was reserved for
Count Resmon's paintings. They lined the
corridor on either side. They demonstrated
kind of artistic contrariness: all signed the
same coy way, Count Resmon, and featuring---
despite the rumored opposition of prudes and
haters at the time---the same model, a beautiful
young man, eighteen or nineteen years old,
depicted in many settings; depicted as several
figures from history or mythology---such as
Saint John On The Lake's Shore, or Ganymede On
Troy's Highest Tower, always full length, always
barefoot. The paintings sometimes seemed to move,
being full of the most provocative vivacity.
Often, the same elderly man visited the Resmons;
yes, frequently; not daily but almost. He always
wore the same threadbare suit and scuffed shoes;
age and several internal conditions, deemed at the
time as incurable, had ravaged his body, which was
stooped as he walked with a limp. Pain---perhaps
even incessant agony---had severely altered his visage.
Because so little was known about Count Resmon---an
artist who fiercely and ferociously guarded his
privacy almost to incognito anonymity---we, at first,
thought the old man might be him. But after much
painstaking research, we learned that Count Resmon
had died a decade earlier. Then we realized: this
crippled old geezer, pausing at each painting before
shuffling on to the next (his tottering footsteps as
difficult as a second infancy's), had been Count
Resmon's model, the beautiful young man---
long-haired, slender, lithe, whose suggestive
gaze and shy smile suggested an experience of
pleasures then deemed unhealthy or unlawful---
who had posed so eagerly (and, in a couple of
sessions, entirely naked) for the formidable but
obviously appreciative painter. At the far
end of the wing was an antique, wrought iron
bench, and the decrepit visitor always paused to
rest there, right in front of the painting of
Tadzio And Jaschu Still In Love On The Beach.
Starward
I love how your variety of
I love how your variety of settings is as boundless as your imagination: here you set the stage in a museum where only the works of great masters are displayed, and here, enshrined on canvas and playing many parts (not unlike the figures in your plethora of poetic depictions), is the epitome of inner and outer beauty, gentle dignity, self-assured elegance and earthy playfulness right down to the unshod feet.
With a stroke of brilliance, you found a way to make your character so electrifying and, well, real, that he almost jumped off the canvas (as he, in many costumes and roles, jumps off the screen in your poems) :
". . . The paintings sometimes seemed to move,
being full of the most provocative vivacity."
Your subtle handling of eroticism erupts with far more power than explicit "telling" could ever do.
As in many of your Ad Astra poems, venomous, irrational judgement from society slithers on the fringes, but never manages to defile what is, in its essence, sacred and pure, because, what else can love be?
Love, being one of the many names of God.
And here's where we get to the lasting impact, the legacy, the intention of this series. In an age of censorship when neo-fascists want to erase an entire subculture (or anyone that doesn't look or think like them), you make the marginalized and too often silenced shine in their own resplendent truth. In your deft and compassionate hands, you make them feel seen.
As I glided through your supple, fine-crafted and stirring story (the pacing is always perfection) I was delighted by your cunning reveal: the old man was the model! Bravo!
Then you ended on such a heart-clutching note that I'm still impacted as I write this. Like all great poetry, one still feels it long after the last line is read.
Another success.
Any comment from you is not
Any comment from you is not only a privilege, but a validation. I thank you for visiting this poem, and for explicating it with your usual shrewd and authoritative remarks. I apologize for the brevity of this response; but at the moment I am facing a small crisis of sorts. I did not want to appear ungrateful for the comment.
Starward
Thank you for your
Thank you for your extraordinary courtesy in spite of your hardships. Sending prayers and positive thoughts your way. Be well, gifted Poet and bringer of light.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Starward