Albrecht Dürer and me. David Zieroth

      

      Albrecht Dürer and me

      Albrecht Dürer and me

      David Zieroth

      Copyright © 2014 David Zieroth

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      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright, www.accesscopy right.ca, 1-800-893-5777, [email protected].

      Harbour Publishing Co. Ltd.

      P.O. Box 219, Madeira Park, BC, V0N 2H0

      www.harbourpublishing.com

      Edited by Silas White

      Cover design by Shed Simas

      Text design by Carleton Wilson

      Printed and bound in Canada

      

      Harbour Publishing acknowledges financial support from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

      Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada

      isbn 978-1-55017-674-2 (paper)

      isbn 978-1-55017-675-9 (ebook)

      For those who called me away, and for those who called me back

      Nothing, above all, is comparable to the new life that a reflective person experiences when he observes a new country. Though I am still always myself, I believe I have changed to the very marrow of my bones.

      — from Italian Journey by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, translated by W. H. Auden and Elizabeth Mayer

      dislocation

      Viennese shoes

      in Wien, even the homeless wear good shoes

      or at least one bedraggled, bearded, filthy-

      coated giant managed uncommonly decent leather

      brogues that toe-curl a bit, an Italian smile

      intimating heat and lust and care for craft

      yes, any change of place forces up generalizations

      rife and ready, and even knowing how quickly

      scenes arise in the mind: lithe men, short hair

      long strides, briefcases, or young artists debating

      over Styrian beer and new wine spritzers the edge

      of mathematical, abstract space – I know really

      very little: glittering steel lines of the tram

      on Ungargasse, straight under my feet

      and along some sections, short grass snuggles

      green against silver – earth and engineering

      power-sharing – what could either say to the other

      about times when heels of famous men

      clacked these cobblestones: Freud’s boots, how he

      slipped into leather smoothly pleased with strength,

      and Hitler’s shoes, paint bespattered, then further back

      and further back again until an Ottoman stands

      outside the ringed wall of the city, 300 cannon strong

      the story goes, Grand Vizier Pasha tapping

      his magnificent Asian slippers on these stones

      passport . . .

      inspected and stamped, leads to

      towers and gargoyles – and cafés

      the ruined faces of fathers

      wide, haughty mouths of mothers

      their children oblivious

      except to couples

      kissing on stone bridges

      an old man crossing himself

      as he bicycles past a cathedral

      document made to bend

      though not in the eyes of the law

      a young woman looks at me

      frankly, then waves me on

      to empty my pockets, remove

      my belt and pass beep-free

      through their ultra-machine

      these open-faced beings

      the way they gaze

      the pale madonnas awaiting me

      lean to the left, ear touching

      the baby’s head, he so finely

      detailed, as if Florentine artists

      wanted to paint more of their power

      into him than into her:

      his divine versus her blessed

      how her near-blandness recalls

      the manner of those calm guards!

      upright in blue shirts

      watching at entryways

      a touch of knowledge

      dusting their cheeks

      train ride

      passing through Linz I notice trains

      preternaturally, not the cylinders

      for carrying acid chemicals

      graffiti on their bulging sides

      but older blocky types

      of faded wood now silenced

      on a weedy siding, while I sit in the upper

      section, aware of speed and efficiency

      across from me two young men gaze

      into a camera steadied by the über-clean

      hands of the blond one, occasionally

      speaking quiet German phrases

      while the old man cross-aisle snorts

      as he sleeps though his jaw remains firm

      and never once does his mouth fall slack

      to reveal a vacuity no one has to see

      while I see how I’ve travelled beyond

      the two paragons but haven’t yet arrived

      at the one who catches his escaping breath

      though I also note he’s mastered not

      sliding on his seat into a heap of age

      I turn away from humans close at hand

      to look again at boxcars and wonder

      what they were filled with, carried

      and left behind: routine stuff of light

      bulbs and oddments from elsewhere

      tractor parts and toiletries, nothing worse