POETRY - On Miguel Padura's [painting] "July Sunlight"

On Miguel Padura’s July Sunlight

I opened the door late in the day

Still at this late hour, the light was so vibrant and sharp, I could nearly make out the grinding scrape of it across the walls and the floor.  A light so vigorous and determined, I was certain I heard the rattle of the window pane, struggling not to give way.

A pre-adolescent girl simply standing.

In passing observation, it seemed she stood in silence,

Not really glaring, but certainly attenuated in my direction

She asked nothing, not even why I was there uninvited, unannounced

In this presumed silence was housed an encapsulated possibility

Of any sound

All that remained though, was the rush of water from a new faucet in the old bathtub

Claw feet of bronze going nowhere from here

By and by, as my soul slowly began to fully join the presence of the room,

I detected myriad invisible languages each take their turn…

First, her eyes:

There’s no telling what can happen when 100 year-old eyes in a 10 year-old girl notice you’re there uninvited

You may choose not to believe the gnawing whisper in your head that she’s 10 times ahead of you in some way.  Je ne sais pas

Her eyes’ careful study and concentration radiate waves of resolutions that have answered their own questions, though absent any concern for accuracy

(She is after all, only about 10)

Her shadow screeched, carving out a girl-shaped hole through the rays of the sun, mirroring her sharp edges.

It settled itself plaintively across the floor

This young girl, so peculiar in her way and vibrations and mysteriously sophisticated energies,

Caught a shaft of light, otherwise impossible for less worldly girls, for that light-catching was intentional

Even now, when I’m quite sure I’ve heard more than can even make a sound,

The delicate rustling of her white, linen smock coos tenderly like a tiny dove.

Lino bianco.  This song perhaps ministers to her, evening her rage,

Her indignant concern over my intrusion

Or perhaps over her own tired memory

What I listen for, and yet cannot hear,

Is the secret of her memory

Of this, there is nothing more than an unintelligible murmur

Nothing seems to touch this room,

Save for the echo of God, in one of His moods.

What has this child been told of the world?

8/6/02   

Mackenzie Littledale

backstory:
I'd given myself an assignment to visit the art museum and write 5 pieces of poetry on 5 pieces of  art,  each of which had to focus on one of the 5 senses.  I hope to God I've destroyed the other 4 poems.  Rubbish.  Absolute rubbish.  This one got my seal of approval.  I can still see the painting in my mind's eye, though I've been utterly unsuccessful at finding an image of it online.

#MackenzieLittledale
#Poetry
#JulySunlight
#MiguelPadura
#MuseumofArtFortLauderdale

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