.

The Portrait  

I dreamed I was an artist, and had made
A likeness of the one I loved for all
To wonder at, and, that the homage paid
Might grow, I hung it on a trendy wall.
It was a likeness, but had subtleties
Which left the character equivocal.
I’ll give the details, since such fantasies
Are thought to show the secrets of the mind,
Using the language of analogies.

The portrait was exhibited unsigned,
And no clue given to the sitter’s name,
But no one cared, so far as I could find.
The picture earned a purer sort of fame:
For many gathered in the public place
Where it was hung to play a guessing game,
While others doubtless crowded round that face
To see what sort of image could have stirred
The interest of such a populace.
And so its fame went fanning out till word
Came to my loved one’s ears. I hadn’t planned
On that. That’s how the tragedy occurred.
That’s how it was my darling came to stand
Sudden and casual, unbraced for the shock,
In the next instant putting out a hand
To clutch a pillar, struck too weak to walk,
Numb on the fringes of the jeering crowd,
But not too numb to listen to their talk:

“A monster,” snorted one, “Who looks too proud
To give what any person here could give!”
(For in my dream somehow I had endowed
That form almost with power to speak and live
And publicly display all that had been
Most private for us, and most negative.)
Someone answered: “Once it was thought a sin,
But that idea’s dead—a healthy shift.
A minor matter. I’d have given in.”
A third agreed. “Sure. What’s the use of thrift
In such a trade? I’ve lost ten times as much
And made it look as if it were a gift.
But this vain prude would not so much as touch
The one who begged, and though it was a fool
Who begged, I’ve never heard of mending such
A weakness just by hanging up the tool.”
Others among the mass who lounged about
Joined in the rising mood of ridicule:
“The sitter feared the painter might find out
How little such a gift was really worth,
And therefore chose to keep the fool in doubt,”
One jibed. Another, less inclined to mirth,
Nevertheless pursued the thought: “It’s fear,
Alright, the sort of fear that plagues the earth.
The smile we see depicted masks the sheer
Panic of one who has just savoured power
And found the taste both fugitive and dear.
Such hands as those don’t dare to pluck a flower
For dread of the enchanted scent of loss,
But they can brick a heart up in a tower,
And leave it to be ravished by the moss.
The brushwork suits the thinking all too well:
The sheer precision chills me like a gloss
Upon a text that plumbs new rounds of Hell,
Where shapes of stone allure live flesh to drain
It of its hope and toss away the shell.
I here perceive a masterpiece of pain,
An emblem of an age that hides its hate
Behind a smile as telltale as a stain.”

That’s how I dreamed I heard them derogate
Our very love, while my beloved still stood,
Too numb to move until it was too late,
And so much had been heard that no one could
Have shrugged it off. I saw that figure turn
And pass out through the doors in solitude,
With staring eyes in which I could discern
A look of agony suppressed by pride,
The sort of wound that bound, begins to burn.
And in my dream I heard a voice that cried
“What sort of work of praise is this that shows
The scoffing crowd one’s worst? I’ll go and hide
My hurt in sand-dunes, or in mountain snows,
And live far from all human intercourse,
For the most trusted strike the foulest blows.”

As is the way with dreams, I seemed too hoarse
To speak, find words of comfort, make amends,
And so awoke then, weeping in remorse.
But what in fact could I have said? The ends
For which I’ve let myself be led this way
As carrots lead a donkey that ascends
Were worth the risks. My guide knew how to play
The part expected. If I didn’t budge,
Or if the teasing led us both astray,
Our pains would have been wasted. Don’t begrudge
The effort to perceive in just what light
We wish you, Reader, to become our judge.
Choose now to read so that you see what plight
Dictates these words. For don’t you have to know
The purpose of a tool to use it right?
These words will work like tools. Use them to show
How meaning doubles like a living braid
As two, opposed, may help each other grow.

.

.

Thoughts on the Seven Last Words
of Christ on the Cross

“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

—Luke 23:34

But how shall you forgive us, Lord, who do—
Or think we do? How thrust the taunting crows
Of your cocked truth through these thick ears, that close
Upon the petty self sealed off from you?
How reach who thinks already “This is true…”
But in his acts his flat denial shows?
How can you save us from the ends we chose
When we assumed such knowledge as our due?
After the dirty deed, when the earth shook,
You relented and let many believe. They knew
After the fact, and you blessed them with hope.
His best friends, tearful and confused, took
To their heels, but you let them live too.
Judas knew what he did. You gave him rope.

.

.

Lionel Willis was born in Toronto in 1932. He has been a mosaic designer, portrait painter, watercolorist, biological illustrator, field entomologist and professor of English Literature as well as a poet. His verse has appeared in A Miscellany of Prints and Poems, The Canadian Forum,  Candelabrum Poetry Magazine, Descant, Dream International Quarterly, Harp Strings Poetry Journal, Hrafnhoh, Iambs & Trochees, Light, Romantics Quarterly, The Classical Outlook, The Society of Classical Poets, The Deronda Review,  The Eclectic Muse, The Fiddlehead, The Formalist, The Lyric, The Road Not Taken, Troubadour and White Wall Review, and in two books, The Dreamstone and Other Rhymes (The Plowman, 2003) and Heartscape, a Book of Bucolic Verse (EIDOLON, 2019).  

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10 Responses

  1. Joseph S. Salemi

    “The Portrait” is a deliberately riddling poem. This is made very clear by these lines:

    We wish you, Reader, to become our judge.
    Choose now to read so that you see what plight
    Dictates these words.

    The speaker is challenging the reader to understand precisely what is being discussed. In addition, the poet has very carefully avoided using any pronoun that could indicate the sex of the speaker, or of the subject of the portrait.

    All that can be discerned is this: someone has painted a portrait of someone else, and both of them are in a relationship for which the word “love” is used. The portrait is very good, and is able to reveal some intimate characteristics of the sitter. These characteristics are unflattering (in the eyes of those who viewers the painting). The viewers assume that the sitter is prudish, and has refused someone’s reasonable request. Further assumptions are that the sitter is selfish, fearful, inconsiderate, power-hungry, and domineering.

    The sitter has seen the portrait, and listened to the negative comments of other viewers. The sitter is angered and humiliated, and goes off in a huff.

    Other than this, all else must be speculation. What is the requested thing that was denied?

    Reply
    • Lionel Willis

      Thank you, Joe. Your pointed analysis is on the mark. I won’t admit an answer to the riddle yet.

      Reply
  2. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    I love “The Portrait.” This exquisitely written riddle of a poem has had my head reeling for many different reasons. As I was reading the beautiful and powerful words, I kept having visions of the Mona Lisa… your words brought da Vinci’s conundrum of an unsigned portrait before me – a face read in many ways over the decades to the point where his subject has been at the receiving end of both monstrous and marvelous interpretations, to the point where the purity of the work is lost amid the suffocating suppositions. I did a bit of research on the Mona Lisa and note some clever touches in your work that seem to fit my take.

    I love the poet persona’s perspective… “I dreamed I was an artist, and had made / A likeness of the one I loved for all / To wonder at…” It immediately gives the poem a surreal feel and imbues it with a clever wit… for the reader is reading the words of an artist… a fine poet, who offers the tools (the power of words) to unlock the treasure gleaming within them. Lionel, thank you for the wonderful poetic journey. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the trip!

    Reply
  3. Lionel Willis

    Thank you, Susan. The echos of Mona Lisa are an interesting answer to the riddle, though not quite what I have in mind.

    Reply
    • Susan Jarvis Bryant

      Thank you, Lionel. I keep returning to this intriguing poem for its mysterious beauty… and because I want to find more clues. I hope all becomes clear in the New Year. 🙂

      A very Merry Christmas to you!

      Reply
  4. C.B Anderson

    The language of “The Portrait” is so rich that it should have been cloying — but it wasn’t. Rather, it sparked interest line after line, and though I will surely not be the one to solve the riddle, I will keep at it until I am at my wit’s end.

    Comments on the second poem should probably be written in Aramaic, but the only Aramaic I know is: Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani. You always present a challenge, and I look forward to more of them in the future. There should be a special prize for poets who always keep readers on their toes.

    Reply
  5. Margaret Coats

    The Portrait seems to be a fairly good sketch of carping critics. And the artist-speaker is a wordsmith exhibiting a bad dream.

    Reply
  6. Paul Freeman

    In ‘The Portrait’, I gathered that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and that though the narrator beheld his masterpiece, others beheld a monster. Perception seems to be the key, just as some abhor free verse, yet others love it (and vice versa).

    At first I thought the crowd were each seeing one of the seven deadly sins, but that didn’t seem the case later on. A second reading beckons!

    The last three lines of ‘Thoughts on the Seven Last Words of Christ on the Cross’, really got me thinking and reading up on the topic. This is one of those poems that would have jazzed up otherwise boring assemblies at school, where I mostly remember a violent deputy headmaster poised to launch a heavy wooden board eraser at anyone he caught talking.

    Thanks for the reads, Lionel.

    Reply

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