Five Czech Paintings (writing exercise, unedited)

Marietta, Ettere Tito 1887


She has that Russian half-moon beneath the nail face,
perfectly unflawed, undetailed
like a ph strip dipped into the air
to reveal her age.

And glimpsed along this canal's walls
toes past the edge of this slab
for boarding the boats, she looks back
aware she's being looked at, but from the wrong direction.

Czech headscarf, her neckerchief suspended like that
somehow natural, a counterbalance to her posture
like those hands on her knees.
Impressionist since evanescent, I've no way
to get to her, separated by water,
have but this painting
till I turn.

High waist, golden dress like a cockerel
hands on knees revealing her bust,
creating a triangle with her back and taut legs.
A strong body, planted feet, only
her head, alert, thrust into the light half
of this picture, filled with its water and trees.

No signature. Ultra-realist of Tess of the D'Urbevilles cover.



Smoker Vaclav Brozik 1893


Your portraitist soothed by shade
planted his subjects at study,
and you at ease
in cock-at-ease finery
material that will not crease
chair curved as a manger's oak it is a picture of
your casement ease, daylight
no breeze, high up like a pinhole exposure
you may be lit, you survey an inner
Dick Turpin boots,
lit but not looking, the shutters place
you as Czech
a man of action, unacting
cousin to the Laughing Cavalier
folded parchment, volumes, a cross
or unlit candle on your desk.
Your pipe is unlit.
The chair is a balance, an eggcup's
half dome atop an inverted half dome,
signature bottom left: Vaclav Brozik.



Portrait of a Lady with a Greyhound 1895-7 Vaclav Brozik


Direct gaze, your eyes shaded by your hat,
your talon grip on your umbrella infirm,
the naked ungloved other hand hideous somehow.
Your sallow, prominent skull conjures
spots on the lung, this black fur lined gown
too Russian, too adorned, like the gimleted collar
of your greyhound. The wall behind you
is a featureless sea-stone, your posture too erect.
Meant to spell rich it begs for you to dress down,
leave your seat, your pillars and get some fresh air.

The paws would skitter over this reflective wood floor
black,
a crepe-paper like texture, those seeds of a tree
the red cloth over the chair behind you throws
you forward
the dog's concave inner thigh
empty your hands!

That this frame behind you seems featureless
as cloud-filled sky. The artificial crepusculates
your dress will harden and crack
like stale marzipan, the handle of your umbrella
turn to dust, the greyhound's skull hollow
its fur retreat up its long wrists, the gimlets
hard as its thorax, the woman's skeleton propped
to one side, the world, clouded, behind them both
the gloves unravel like a spool of burning cotton.
The wooden floor slick as to give no purchase.

In your chair, dressed, you are your own lighthouse stair,
the bear-fur sash running up your marzipan gown,
one hand bared, holding its glove, like England
bidding adieu, a station parting,
one glimpse of shining black shoe
though you are indoors.
both you and this greyhound are mute,
with nothing to say. Except
look at me. You do not anticipate censure,
or pity, or my hand to assist you
to climb down the floors of yourself, uncurl
this dress from around your body, step
you out of your shoes and into a fountained
dusky armour.
That umbrella guard might graze the finish of the wood.
That shimmer of your gown deflects my gaze,
like a sickly sweet wrapper. The weight
of keeping up this show leaves you wan, unsunned.

There is nothing natural about your shape.
No pleasing curve, no lithe uplift.
These chair arms were not painted by you,
this hat not decorated or turned by your gloved
and ungloved fingers, this chair not assembled,
this collar not gimleted, this bear not skinned,
the dress not sewn, this painting not brushed,
what are you? Who are you? You are marble.



Recruits 1888 Vojtech Bartonek


Cases in hand mirroring the ladies' baskets,
coats, shoes the match of these cold cobbles
the six move through the market helmeted,
asong, only the stallholders, lit by this vision,
in focus out of the misty light.
The women's dresses, bound at the back,
seem cumbersome as an old lady's shawl.
The men are efficient, adroit, in three-piece suits,
their hats in three categories (none are plumed):
green the ghost-lit civvy, his bag briefcase grey.
On the floor are things to be carried: vegetables
and flowers, filling baskets, the women headscarved
their stalls beneath umbrellas. But one girl's
head is uncovered and has caught the attention of the gent.
In a world of rainwater and lifting, these men
are equal to the task.
Prague's streets fade out of focus around them,
they pass through, lighting up the villagers they touch
- touch with song, with address, with costume, with camarederie.
These recruits are the only men, but for one overalled artisan.
These are young men.
The signature is lost in the cobbles.
A Czech version of Les Parapluies.
The civvy is arm in arm with the general,
mocking courtship; yet the general has his grip
on two recruits' arms. They roll down the street
like rain.
The movement of The Boating Party by Renoir.
The other man is behind the canvass.
All of life is here - seasons, food, courtship, song.
The general's hat is red. One man, the civvy, seems cowed, reluctant.
The most gregarious are perhaps drunk, at this early hour.



The Despair of Orpheus 1942 Josef Sima


Yet this is a woman, naked, bent like the red-blown tree.
He plays, the trees bend to his shape.
The hills allow perspective, an 'in'
to the source. The scene well-lit. The landscape curved.
Natural, there are no features but posture.
Orpheus seems absent from the picture.
He has no instrument.
The riverside is where his decapitated body
was torn to shreds.
Here, this stone in the cool water
resembles a Herm, a head.
This flowing orange hair becomes
blood, Orpheus unable to sing again.
The gulf between the foreground
and the cold, though sunlit, distance.
The still water.
Orpheus props a hand on the ground.
The herm is like the first of five
puffs of cloud, a train's departure.

This one red-leaved tree is in proportion
with his other hand if he had thrust
his head through the landscape to see.

Or, this woman mourns Orpheus.
Natural, unadorned, above all rooted.
Despair is contemplation.