Again, at San Giorgio degli Schiavoni

Jacqueline Osherow

You’d think I’d move on to something else
or at least grow accustomed to the shock.
But what can I tell you? It still dazzles,

still sends my clumsy eyes into a panic,
not just to catch it all before it fades,
but to memorize each item as a keepsake.

(Like I need more dragons’ eyes and gold brocades.)
But it’s not a dream. Or not mine anyway.
It won’t dissolve it all; look how it spreads

across the walls for anyone to see.
A room. Four painted walls. It’s really there
and kind enough to do my dreaming for me

if I would let it, if I could stand here
awash in all this lush, unsorted clutter,
not caring if a single thing comes clear.

Maybe a flash or two of unclaimed glitter
would even take a chance and land on me.
Why not let it? What does it matter

whether that’s a dragon or a tree,
a saint or monster, a boat or shoe?
Why am I so frantic to supply

an accurate account, complete with follow-through?
Why do I always have to get my bearings?
Then again, who is this guy Carpaccio

that I should lose myself in his meanderings?
Does he get lost in mine? What’s he to me?
I doubt he had to hear some poet’s murmurings

before he placed that pheasant near that tree.
Ah, but I’m wrong again. Look! There I am!
Unobtrusive, in the far-left corner. See?
At the painting’s margins: there are three of them:
inflating their already puffed-out cheeks
to give more color to the bright encomium

waiting in their trumpets’ upraised necks.
Can you see the likeness? I’m always praising things;
it’s my definition of poetics.

I learned it from my favorite ancient king’s
favorite pastime (aside from women);
he preferred an instrument of ten strings

but, in a pinch, was always quick to summon
a couple of trumpet blasts to crank things up.
That’s why I see these three men as an omen.

I admit, my comparison’s a little bankrupt;
I haven’t got a trumpet, only this
and I’m not even sure I’m that adept.

But look at my three guys: hell-bent, tenacious;
maybe what I mean is how we’ve yearned,
my trumpeters and I, inconspicuous

in a stunning cityscape’s congested background.
And they’re disgusted with their tone; it’s much too shrill,
just as Carpaccio, who longed to make a sound,

found his silent brushes unacceptable.
Still, it’s not as if I have a trumpet.
I’m more like that lady at her window still

eyeing George parading down the street.
She probably doesn’t see the real thing either.
That’s what this is, by the way, did I tell you that?

Carpaccio’s St. George—though I’ve seen other
such trumpeters in paintings from that era.
I’m always so delirious to find them there.

I envy their oblivious bravura,
the way they struggle toward that perfect fanfare:
Who cares if anyone’s listening? Abracadabra.

Let’s just fill our cheeks with still more air.
All this vast intensity is theirs.
George slays his dragon with far less ardor,

his bride almost lethargic through her tears,
but how my virtuosos’ faces resonate
as muses cram cadenzas in their ears.

Come on, guys. You can play them. Concentrate.
Just picture one pure note and watch it rise
up through your trumpet’s bell. Now let it out.

Don’t stop while I readjust my eyes.
You can’t fool me, Carpaccio; that’s your self-portrait,
clamoring for one last blast of praise.

My Version: Medieval Acrostic

Jealousy? Homage? Longing? Superstition?
All I know is, I want to join those guys
Calling God’s name, writing their own
Quietly, in steady pieces, as if praise
Unmasks the giver as it goes along,
Existing and singing simultaneous.
Let me in, guys—even if I’m wrong;
I’m not fit for unremitting chaos.
Nudge me when another cornered word
Escapes as firmament the moment it’s uttered. . . .