After Pablo Picasso

                                     For Prof. Ruben David Defeo

 

Nobody had yet heard of the flying Walendas

(Because they tumbled and somersaulted

In a different time), but Señor Don Pablo Picasso

Dreamed differently for Giovane and his

Uncle, the aging acrobat. They might be taking

A break from the trapeze and the ring,

The elephants bowing and the lions complaining

Under whip and stool. And Uncle Luciano

Might be giving last-minute tips for the double

Somersault, which his young body could execute

With agility, as the others rode their bicycles

On the wire and catch him just in time for his

Handsprings and his quick snatching 

Of the swinging bar, and the flight would be 

One piece of music, a divine melody from

Schubert or Liszt before the crash of the drums

And cymbals. The audience as usual would gape

In awe, hold their breath before he landed 

On the trampoline and onto canvas before they

Could exhale and he would bow and curtsy

With the ultimate sangfroid. Mirabile dictu,

The professor in the audience would exclaim,

Adjusting his pince-nez, the circus-goers 

Rising in ovation, the applause almost drowning

The distant droning of biplanes swopping down

On the next town like acrobats on trapeze,

As Franco’s war began to spread its

Destruction in earnest, the aviators training

Their Maxim-Tukarevs on the frenzied shapes

Fleeing below, as they dropped their fire bombs

And razed Guernica to the ground, erasing its

Edifices and memories, and even Don Pablo’s

Art could only imagine the carnage, 

His Blue period now turning crimson and rose

And his figures now Cubist and twisted and

Screaming without sound under the cruelty, 

His harlequin colors turning black, his voice

Hoarse and keening in the blood-letting.

 

 

Marne Kilates

26 December 2021

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