In a glass, curved as the cosmos, as Parmigianino deftly wove,
Where fingers loomed larger than thoughts, reaching for the onlooker’s soul,
And gracefully veering away, as if guarding sacred realms,
There resides a tale, woven in leaded panes and ancient beams,
Silks and fur, a coral band encircling, harmonizing,
All in a dance supporting a visage, drifting
Closer, then distant, akin to the hand’s waltz,
Yet in a serene repose. It conceals what lies within,
Held away from prying eyes. Vasari whispers, “Francesco, inspired,
Decided to capture his essence, gazing through the eye of a barber’s glass…
He crafted a wooden sphere with skillful hands,
Halving it, shaping it to the mirror’s form, and there he stood,
Meticulously replicating all the glass revealed to him,”
Mainly his own reflection, of which this portrait
Is but a reflection, twice removed.
The glass, selective, mirrored solely his essence,
Enough for his purpose: his form
Frozen, preserved, projected in a 180-degree arc.
Daylight’s caress, or shadows’ embrace,
Clings to the countenance, sustaining it
In a rhythmic dance of presence. The soul claims its space,
But how far can it voyage through the windows of the eyes
And safely return to its sanctuary? The convex curvature,
Expands the distance significantly, making the point clear—
The soul is captive, kindly treated, suspended,
Restricted from venturing beyond the boundaries
Marked by your gaze as it meets the canvas.
Pope Clement and his court stood “stupefied”
By this artistry, Vasari narrates, promising patronage
That never found fruition. The soul must linger where it belongs,
Restless, listening to raindrops tapping on the glass,
Autumn’s leaves sighing in the wind’s wild dance,
Longing for liberation, for the outdoors, yet it abides,
Frozen in this stance. It must remain
As still as the whisper of a breeze. This is the tale the portrait tells,
Yet within those eyes dwells a fusion,
Of tenderness, mirth, and sorrow, so potent
In its constraint, that gazing too long invites
A poignant realization. The truth is laid bare. The pity stings,
Ignites torrents of tears: the soul, a mere mirage,
Holds no secrets, a diminutive echo,
Perfectly filling its hollow: its sanctuary, our fleeting moment of attention.
Such is the melody, but words fail to capture it,
They are but musings in the wind.
:: 10.07.2023 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 