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by Roshan Doug
(The National Gallery, London)
I'm reminded how phosphorous a piece of work it is,
how culturally Cretonnian in its texture,
faintly imperialistic, synonymous with wishing wells
and blue bells in a nine day monsoon reign.
Its cinematic perspective, emotionally decipherized
brushed tightly in shades of red and black,
and the despair of the shadows clutching
the suffocating walls of 1554, closing in,
hold Delaroche to the Lady, unrealistic as she
is kneeling cushioned besides the crimson
gloom of the executioner and the staunch
blade of his axe, whilst the cut and the
cream of the nineteenth century dress radiates
the dry French straws. What words of
comfort must have been uttered by
the Constable of the Tower, what eyes, what
looks provided the impetus for this final scene
saintly canonized in this seventeen year
old queen, disturbingly serene yet
satanically pious and arousing to watch.
Upon Watching The Royal Family,
1969
(For Her Majesty, The Queen, on Her 75th Birthday)
I was seven when I saw you on a black and white screen
A time when the world was a mysterious commodity -
Unique and obscure like The Rain-Charm for the Duchy.
That doleful dignity stood defiantly like John the Baptist,
Gracefully like perfect stillness, perfectly.
That language echoed clarity and antiquity
Like the clear sharp outline of a midnight moon,
Smiling upon the Crown like pomp and majesty.
Oceans can rise in leaps and bounds, they say,
Like a lyrical sonnet piercing the heart.
Perhaps they can. Back then that voice was a youthful
Harp or a sitar faintly playing, falling like the stars.
But it wasn't your English consonants clashing
With my foreign vowels that touched me then,
Or the structured restraints of dangling chords
That appealed to my senses. Instead,
It was that deep resonance, that rare presence
Of a different world hanging like a poem in my class.
There was that voice out of my touch, in another league,
Like the man on the moon, magnetic as the Rosetta Stone
Or Kaaba in the East, filtering through time
Like ambiguity invading my culture and youth.
And I remember Armstrong's animated prose
One small step... washing over the unease of Annenberg's
Fumbling refurbishment, rehabilitation. So tonight,
I see age as a linguistic thought, the grouping
Of words and intonation that touches the state
Of nirvana where your eyes still dance like a haunting,
The omniscient guide, in a turbulent universe.
And amidst a Plantagenet sky, softly speaking still,
I think of Annenberg and Armstrong and Hughes,
And the flights and flutterings of your words
Descending like Christmas rain, like holi confetti,
Deep in motion. As if, you're probing the past
Patiently, like an advocate of the English law.
For this is what you are and all that we stand for.
Page created 1 April 2001
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