Barbara Fisher: Two Poems

On Looking at Ghirlandaio’s Portrait of an Old Man and his Grandson

Yes, the old man’s nose

is the first thing we notice.

Undeniably ugly, it is very large

and covered with warts, cruel contrast

to his grandson’s upturned face

with its flawless skin and golden hair.

But then our perception shifts.

We start to see the old man

as his grandson sees him,

we catch that faint smile

and the tenderness as his hooded eyes

look down on the radiant child

pressed against him.

Both their clothes are the same warm red,

as if to reflect the blood that binds them

and the more we look at them

we know something marvellous

is alive in the work.

Barbara Fisher

Place Dauphine

We found it again in late May,

more a triangle than a square,

where men played boules

on gravel under the plane trees.

The hotel’s still there

but called something else.

It’s clearly gone up in the world.

But this was where we stayed,

where all our friends stayed,

young and poor and hopeful,

bounding up the winding stair

to firetrap rooms sans bath

to marvel at our simply being

there, imagine—in Paris.

We saw the city, silver-grey,

the river through leafless trees,

and on dark early mornings,

lying close in our narrow bed,

heard cart-wheels grind on cobble-stones,

thought of tumbrils and the guillotine,

not cabbages, cheese and chickens

destined for Les Halles.

Starring in our own Bohème,

we heated our tin of soup

on a spirit stove safely placed

in the chipped enamel bidet

and retrieved a slice of Brie

from our mottle-mirrored wardrobe.

Cooking in rooms was forbidden,

an edict always ignored—

the place was full of students.

Breakfast came up three flights of stairs,

brought by an ancient maid,

panting from the bakery.

We ate our croissants full of guilt,

yet still wished they were hotter,

that she was younger

and could run faster.

Barbara Fisher