Rembrandt’s ghost
Heavy for a ghost, he rouses himself again
To trawl the galleries of his dead successes.
Although he is spruced with a garland of rosemary,
His winding sheet still reeks of mortality and paint,
And he still keeps a weather- eye
For the shades of old creditors,
For, dogged interminably by life’s misfortunes,
Rembrandt Van Rijn died beyond his means.
Anna the Prophetess
Dear Anna.
Indefatigable!
Your eyes still pore over the wake
Of your reading hand,
And the words churn in your implacable face.
Beneath my carapace of paint
You still count the burnished wonders of your God,
Meticulously refresh the ancient book
With your dogged curiosities,
O daughter of Jerusalem,
The Jewish Bride
Fine fellow, dressed to the frothy nines,
More gorgeous even
Than your pink young bride.
Consider, sir, the placement
Of your right, proprietary hand,
And note that your bride’s left hand,
Although bonded with a diamond,
Contains a small perceptible, no.
This, I fear,
May prove a most difficult tenancy.
The Denial of Christ
I watch again as your Master pauses,
And I, too, am caught in the moment
Of my own expectation.
Peter, I gave you such handsome possibilities,
Had your face shining like a saint,
And yet still,
On this third occasion,
You can only find a lie.
St Matthew and the Angel
Ah, the roseate glow of her Flemish hair
And her fingers that barely kiss
The shoulder of the Evangelist;
Yet now he must weigh into words
The whispers of the comely Seraphim,
Must weigh the press of her words,
Must weigh the scent of her fingers,
Must weigh into whispers
The fragrance of her words.
The Night Watch
Consider the grandest worthies
With pike and spike and Arquebus
And muskets primed,
Puffed up with lethal expectations,
Jostling their importance
With elbows drawn.
Some favour helmets
And whims of rakish armour;
All are in their Sunday’s best
Armed with deadly lace, embroidery and sash,
Just so.
And there shines my sweet Saskia
Armed only with a chicken;
The retort of the starting musket
Still shudders in her startled face.
Ah, the gentlemen are thinking to move
And are ready to commence,
So I, in courtesy, shall turn my back
So that their clockwork may begin.
The Syndics Guild
Yes Gentlemen,
I have reserved to you your protestant black
And your bibs as white as souls;
And I was careful to record
The weights and practised measures of your eyes;
But I did allow as well
The flesh of face and hand
To rush with life like tropic fruit;
And again, old Volckert Janz
Is rising to protest such presumption;
He knows I could not pay my bills:
See how I have left his hand in livid shadow,
How it claws the civic chair.
Jeremiah: who laments over the destruction of Jerusalem
In shade,
Zebediah, the king blinded by his people,
Kneads his fists against his blindness.
In fire,
The great weight of the temple masonry
Is fallen:
Loud is the doom of its catastrophe.
In light,
Jeremiah, prophet without honour,
Is poised amongst abandoned things,
Lost within the gravity of his dolorous rest.
The return of the Prodigal Son
And now, Rembrandt Van Rijn,
Threadbare, footsore,
The burial shoes rotted,
The soles adrift,
Stands as a prodigal:
A ghost dithering at his own stubborn threshold
Before a father who, in seeming blindness,
By touch can see;
A father who by touch can gather in,
Span the grief of forgiveness,
Restore breath.