After Valerio Painted “Gail”
Eileen Tabios
Splendiferous damask, importance in its weight,
inherited china, old silver to satiate
sophisticated palates, Baccarat aglow
and basking in its burden of old Bordeaux.
Mahogany moldings, to heaven they rise,
wallpaper of silk, infinite in price,
gold and crystal are together chandeliered,
dripping red candles, the sconces do they beard.
A Persian slumbers on the beribonned floor,
Chinese vases admonish tyes to adore
ivory stories of fishermen, sorcerers, kings
and demons -- all atrophied into carven things.
The room of beauty reeks with authority,
of wealth and preferences steeped in religiosity,
all quite natural to host white-haried men
and sons who aspire to Dad’s own ken.
But, there is discordance, discordance in this environment.
The talk is impassioned, sincereity no figment
in expressed concerns by civilians present
-- intangibles hold sway over munificent ornaments.
Over there a lady Somalian, overflowing with eyes of coal,
over there a refugee seeking tomake East Timor whole,
hosted by New Yorkers investing monies and influence
knowing wealth as a tool, not the actual point of confluence.
No wonder the glorious babble, hearty in their loudness,
no wonder laughter and critiques, unchecked in their madness,
no wonder the aggressiveness of opinions flung about,
the saying comes to mind, “perhaps in error, but ne’er in doubt.”
Wathcing the din stolidly, “Gail” blocks a full wall.
Painted in reverie, lost in mystery, she sits in a trhall
From internal musings, fishes transmute from the air,
“What does it mean?” The viewer aches to step in her lair.
It’s a tropical feast of colors, not only because of the banana tree
waving green fronds beyond the window, the sunshine full of glee.
Within the shaded room, paint radiates heat, making true the lies
evoked through skin, kimono, oriental rug and Gail’s eyes.
Sincerity of tone, sincerity of heart - both do fail
to amush her attention from her own travail.
The women rage, the men age, the lone maid weeps.
Still Gail hoards her burden, no empathy from paint seeps.
Slight indentation of blue beneath left knee
from pressing on the rug when making her plea
almost becomes lost in the viewer’s span.
How sad a bruise becomes but a bit of sand.
Was she just now begging for some answer to a question?
Was she just now arguing to dissolve another’s tension?
The face is wreaked with tracks of earlier passions.
She pauses, “a topaz”, but there will be more lamentations.
For now the image is of a dispassionate stance.
What happened, my love, that you turned away askance?
Surely you don’t believe you are only canvas and paint
when Valerio’s magic can make all vision faint?
