Hands against the ruined wall, finger shadows thicken,
pale back curves beneath
a carapace of bark,
melancholy, the virtuoso
hums,
Then at one point I
did not need to translate the words; they fell directly from my lips
Afterthoughts wrapped in
language’s somber garb,
memory as amintire, sadness as tristezza, hope is espoir,
desire echoing across all tongues, but finding no voice
of its own, hands that
held a vanishing house,
acrid scent, empty
stairwell, ever the echo
of death, this slow
abandonment.
This poem is part of a five poem series I wrote in 2003 based on the photographic self-portraits of Francesca Woodman. 'Then at one point I did not need to translate the notes; they went directly to my hands' (c.1976) is one of numerous images she took while she was a student at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) between 1975-1979.
This poem is part of a five poem series I wrote in 2003 based on the photographic self-portraits of Francesca Woodman. 'Then at one point I did not need to translate the notes; they went directly to my hands' (c.1976) is one of numerous images she took while she was a student at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) between 1975-1979.
Photo credit
