It was the colors stopped me

As I scanned the images for Chagall

In a rather random online catalogue.

“Autumn in the Village,” the caption said 

And the season was burning in the sky 

Above the cottage, a tree in the middle

Of it all, rustling as if coming into being

In the conflagration, and the strangeness

Continued to reveal itself: 

                                     Immaculate goat

And his apparent master holding

A violin, were nestled among the leaves

Where the previous season lingered:

The blue and green foliage and clusters

Of gold. Just below the invisible branches

A half-naked woman, her breasts full

and rounded, levitated, opening 

What looked like a fan in her raised 

Hand; and across, above the roofline,

The clipped fingernail of a moon glowed.

 

The duet on the tree: Did the boy just 

Finish a serenade and was the white goat

Asking for more? Caught or lulled 

In that oneiric pause, were they oblivious 

Even of Chagall himself putting in

The last painterly touches wherever

It was that he was lifting his camel-hair tip?

                          The painting now 

Had a life of its own, perhaps it was 

Painting itself, Chagall would say 

(I imagine). The magic was breathing

And throbbing from the whole frame, 

Invading our whole being, lodging 

In our ventricles, driving them with 

The pulsating rhythm of unceasing wonder.

 

 

Marne Kilates

19 October 2021

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