Portraits

The London post . . .

Miranda
by Kenneth Durham Smith

…

Feet firm on the gravel of the beach,
just beyond the furthest reach of waves,
the dark blue dress billowed by the wind -
you follow her eyes to the ship
that has just breached the wall of mist
that has cut the island off her whole life.
She hears what she has never heard -
the creak of ropes and the slap of sail,
the dark smash of hull into wave,
human voices shrieking across the water,
the first other human voices she has ever known.
And her life cracks open, and she is what escapes.

. . .

Based on John William Waterhouse’s painting.

The Seattle riposte . . .

Ophelia
by David Keith Johnson

…

Où sont les fleurs d'Ophélie?
Cast upon the water
By the very soul of beauty
A dead man's daughter.
The light that lights the eyes of all who see her
Is darkness at its heart;
Her bouquets, scented manacles that bind her
To a fated part
To linger, beautiful, where petal, song and tear
Are cast upon the water.

Où sont les chansons d'Ophélie?
In the wind's cold, forward face:
Tunes mysterious and pretty,
Chained to confusion, cast down in disgrace.
The tender modulations of their key,
Major to minor,
Her brave notes bending to her misery
Harmonize disaster,
And so release her desperate message, free
In the wind's cold, forward face.

Où sont les pleurs d'Ophélie?
Avec ses fleurs, avec ses chansons douces,
Mingled where the grey stream gathers icily
Awaiting souls who see no further use.
The fabric of her dress and of her flowers,
Cell by cell yield to the pond
The songs and tears of unbelieving hours,
A heart too fond.
So Beauty settles where the sunlight shivers,
Avec ses fleurs, avec ses chansons douces.

. . .
Based in part on the John Everett Millais painting, and largely on the memory of a long ago performance by a beloved colleague.