Victor Rafolski On Art

You dull Goliaths clothed in coats of blue,     Strained and half bursted by the swell of flesh,     Topped by Gorilla heads. You Marmoset,     Trained scoundrel, taught to question and ensnare,     I hate you, hate your laws and hate your courts.     Hands off, give me a chair, now let me be.     I'll tell you more than you can think to ask me.     I love this woman, but what is love to you?     What is it to your laws or courts? I love her.     She loves me, if you'd know. I entered her room -     She stood before me naked, shrank a little,     Cried out a little, calmed her sudden cry     When she saw amiable passion in my eyes -     She loves me, if you'd know. I saw in her eyes     More in those moments than whole hours of talk     From witness stands exculpate could make clear     My innocence.             But if I did a crime     My excuse is hunger, hunger for more life.     Oh what a world, where beauty, rapture, love     Are walled in and locked up like coal or food     And only may he had by purchasers     From whose fat fingers slip the unheeded gold.     Oh what a world where beauty lies in waste,     While power and freedom skulk with famished lips     Too tightly pressed for curses.             So do men,     Save for the thousandth man, deny themselves     And live in meagreness to make sure a life     Of meagreness by hearth stones long since stale;     And live in ways, companionships as fixed     As the geared figures of the Strassburg clock.     You wonder at war? Why war lets loose desires,     Emotions long repressed. Would you stop war?     Then let men live. The moral equivalent     Of war is freedom. Art does not suffice -     Religion is not life, but life is living.     And painted cherries to the hungry thrush     Is art to life. The artist lived his work.     You cannot live his life who love his work.     You are the thrush that pecks at painted cherries     Who hope to live through art. Beer-soaked Goliaths,     The story's coming of her nakedness     Be patient for a time.         All this I learned     While painting pictures no one ever bought,     Till hunger drove me to this servile work     As butler in her father's house, with time     On certain days to walk the galleries     And look at pictures, marbles. For I saw     I was not living while I painted pictures.     I was not living working for a crust,     I was not living walking galleries:     All this was but vicarious life which felt     Through gazing at the thing the artist made,     In memory of the life he lived himself:     As we preserve the fragrance of a flower     By drawing off its essence in a bottle,     Where color, fluttering leaves, are thrown away     To get the inner passion of the flower     Extracted to a bottle that a queen     May act the flower's part.          Say what you will,     Make laws to strangle life, shout from your pulpits,     Your desks of editors, your woolsack benches     Where judges sit, that this dull hypocrite,     You call the State, has fashioned life aright -     The secret is abroad, from eye to eye     The secret passes from poor eyes that wink     In boredom, in fatigue, in furious strength     Roped down or barred, that what the human heart     Dreams of and hopes for till the aspiring flame     Flaps in the guttered candle and goes out,     Is love for body and for spirit, love     To satisfy their hunger. Yet what is it,     This earth, this life, what is it but a meadow     Where spirits are left free a little while     Within a little space, so long as strength,     Flesh, blood increases to the day of use     As roasts or stews wherewith this witless beast,     Society may feed himself and keep     His olden shape and power?         Fools go crop     The herbs they turn you to, and starve yourself     For what you want, and count it righteousness,     No less you covet love. Poor shadows sighing,     Across the curtain racing! Mangled souls     Pecking so feebly at the painted cherries,     Inhaling from a bottle what was lived     These summers gone! You know, and scarce deny     That what we men desire are horses, dogs,     Loves, women, insurrections, travel, change,     Thrill in the wreck and rapture for the change,     And re-adjusted order.             As I turned     From painting and from art, yet found myself     Full of all lusts while bound to menial work     Where my eyes daily rested on this woman     A thought came to me like a little spark     One sees far down the darkness of a cave,     Which grows into a flame, a blinding light     As one approaches it, so did this thought     Both burn and blind me: For I loved this woman,     I wanted her, why should I lose this woman?     What was there to oppose possession? Will?     Her will, you say? I am not sure, but then     Which will is better, mine or hers? Which will     Deserves achievement? Which has rights above     The other? I desire her, her desire     Is not toward me, which of these two desires     Shall triumph? Why not mine for me and hers     For her, at least the stronger must prevail,     And wreck itself or bend all else before it.     That millionaire who wooed her, tried in vain     To overwhelm her will with gold, and I     With passion, boldness would have overwhelmed it,     And what's the difference?             But as I said     I walked the galleries. When I stood in the yard     Bare armed, bare throated at my work, she came     And gazed upon me from her window. I     Could feel the exhausting influence of her eyes.     Then in a concentration which was blindness     To all else, so bewilderment of mind,     I'd go to see Watteau's Antiope     Where he sketched Zeus in hunger, drawing back     The veil that hid her sleeping nakedness.     There was Correggio's too, on whom a satyr     Smiled for his amorous wonder. A Semele,     Done by an unknown hand, a thing of lightning     Moved through by Zeus who seized her as the flames     Consumed her ravished beauty.         So I looked,     And trembled, then returned perhaps to find     Her eyes upon me conscious, calm, elate,     And radiate with lashes of surprise,     Delight as when a star is still but shines.     And on this night somehow our natures worked     To climaxes. For first she dressed for dinner     To show more back and bosom than before.     And as I served her, her down-looking eyes     Were more than glances. Then she dropped her napkin.     Before I could begin to bend she leaned     And let me see - oh yes, she let me see     The white foam of her little breasts caressing     The scarlet flame of silk, a swooning shore     Of bright carnations. It was from such foam     That Venus rose. And as I stooped and gave     The napkin to her she pushed out a foot,     And then I coughed for breath grown short, and she     Concealed a smile - and you, you jailers laugh     Coarse-mouthed, and mock my hunger.          I go on,     Observe how courage, boldness mark my steps!     At nine o'clock she climbs to her boudoir.     I finding errands in the hallway hear     The desultory taking up of books,     And through her open door, see her at last     Cast off her dinner gown and to the bath     Step like a ray of moonlight. Then she snaps     The light on where the onyx tub and walls     Dazzle the air. I enter then her room     And stand against the closed door, do not pry     Upon her in the bath. Give her the chance     To fly me, fight me standing face to face.     I hear her flounder in the water, hear     Hands slap and slip with water breast and arms;     Hear little sighs and shudders and the roughness     Of crash towels on her back, when in a minute     She stands with back toward me in the doorway,     A sea-shell glory, pink and white to hair     Sun-lit, a lily crowned with powdered gold.     She turned toward her dresser then and shook     White dust of talcum on her arms, and looked     So lovingly upon her tense straight breasts,     Touching them under with soft tapering hands     To blue eyes deepening like a brazier flame     Turned by a sudden gust. Who gives her these,     The thought ran through me, for her joy alone     And not for mine?             So I stood there like Zeus     Coming in thunder to Semele, like     The diety of Watteau. Correggio     Had never painted me a satyr there     Drinking her beauty in, so worshipful,     My will subdued in worship of her beauty     To obey her will.          And then she turned and saw me,     And faced me in her nakedness, nor tried     To hide it from me, faced me immovable     A Mona Lisa smile upon her lips.     And let me plead my cause, make known my love,     Speak out my torture, wearing still the smile.     Let me approach her till I almost touched     The whiteness of her bosom. Then it seemed     That smile of hers not wilting me she clapped     Hands over eyes and said: "I am afraid -     Oh no, it cannot be - what would they say?"     Then rushing in the bathroom, quick she slammed     The door and shrieked: "You scoundrel, go - you beast."     My dream went up like paper charred and whirled     Above a hearth. Thrilling I stood alone     Amid her room and saw my life, our life     Embodied in this woman lately there     Lying and cowardly. And as I turned     To leave the room, her father and the gardener     Pounced on me, threw me down a flight of stairs     And turned me over, stunned, to you the law     Here with these others who have stolen coal     To keep them warm, as I have stolen beauty     To keep from freezing in this arid country     Of winter winds on which the dust of custom     Rides like a fog.          Now do your worst to me!