She hasn’t changed places
by Catherine Stewart
She looks no older than she did,
A year ago, when I saw her last. Kept to herself, on view, she is
Not so old as the Madonna, hewn from lime-wood—her joined hands restful.
On a warm, late summer’s day, the Gallery’s shade
Stalls: blandly air-conditioned; temperate.
Swathed outward by reliquary, the Madonna
Is alcoved, hands unmoved.
Eyes sever her bower. Charcoal walls, behind lime-wood’s prayer, are grey.
Arbored, in her bower, she must stay.
Footfalls away, in another room, Miss Susanna Gale
Looks no older than she was, in 1763. She’s still, at fourteen, waiting—
Made here, a lady, within a portrait’s chamber.
I’m tired, I tell myself—and know in my bones, that fixed
Seasons have past me on moving, metal-shelved stairs;
On glass ramps, opaquely frozen.
She hasn’t changed places, at full-length. But then,
The background’s allotted—leafed as a stately garden, actual or dreamt.
Whoever may carry her favour next the heart, she looks, herself,
As if her likeness were set, to prevail.
She’s in good company: un-fretful; genteel.
Arrayed side by side, after a fashion, each singular pose
Would—in any event—serve to
Complement modes of reverberant elegance.
Brought to the threshold of Joshua Reynolds’ studio,
Did Susanna take him, at a glance or at a word’s breadth,
To plantations in Jamaica? An heiress, he’s the artist—politely introduced.
Nothing’s tracked on a cheek, where the artist goes
Ever so sparingly, with white-damped rouge.
In her right hand, a rose is as pink as the folds of her dress. Petals won’t fall,
while
She’s still, as she was.
Being young, had she seen herself run
Into high gales of laughter, high seas of recoil,
Before she stepped, watchful, into a dark-varnished mirror,
And—since an appointment was over—out, again?
A year after last seeing her here, I can’t know.
In this late summer, she looks to a closer season. Her arched brows pre-empt
Any discomposed surprise, at what may pass.
I’m tired, I tell myself. I glance back, moving away.
The Madonna, alcoved against charcoal,
Needs must stay.
Born Sydney, 1960, Catherine Stewart grew up in Lismore, Australia, studied English Literature at Sydney University and at University of London (U.K.), completing an M.A. in 1987. She returned to Lismore from Canberra in 1993. Stewart has presented creative writing through local performance poetry events as well as at the Australian Poetry Slam 2009. She has also experimented with self-published poetry, combining the written text with her own hand-drawn graphic artwork. Writing “shapes” her viewpoint; impressions.