Ophelia
The venal huts that cling to holy mounts and line the worn steps of a sacred way are not as jarring as the hurt expressed in the face of a friend whom we betray. And just like that!—I lost the one I loved thru a word spat out in a fit of rage, as the iron pen strikes the lines blood-writ from the Book of Youth by the Hand of Age. In the Tate, before that painting by Millais, I gaze bleary-eyed, muffled in shame’s smoke. Can I backward draw the compass foot and remake that circle that I squarely broke? With eyes—too watery—Ophelia stares from her deathless brook, washed in stagnant hues, like a frescoed martyr free of earthly cares, ’neath her slanting willow, floats Betrayal’s Muse.
this is so sharp and precise--like a ornate knife. Loved it
I´ve always loved that painting! Hmmm I like the image of "venal hut".. and "stagnant hues"... (painting and writing with blood)