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after Guercino’s La Morte di Didone, 1631
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In all other paintings of Dido’s death
it looks like those present
actually care. But here
it may as well be the senate:
there’s chitchat and confusion,
and the putto’s taken off,
blasé as a gull, to hunt
a more successful pair of lovers.
Everyone else is unfortunately
wingless. Perhaps here and there
you see some genuine
sadness, but mostly it’s clear
there’s a problem
to deal with and nobody
with proper credentials on hand.
Dido’s still breathing, eyes open,
as if to say, I’ve done
all the work, here’s the wood
and the wound, all you need
is the flame.
If Virgil says Anna was distraught,
there’s no evidence here:
she’s come to pick
one last fight with her sister.
Dido doesn’t care. She bears it
with an eldest child’s persecuted eyes.
Somehow her own death
has come loose from her—
she’s not really at the painting’s centre,
her death’s not about her.
Nobody’s alarmed here. In back,
a servant despairs
at the mess. These people will hang
around for hours,
wanting platters of fruit,
silk for their tears
and when they leave to air
the smoke from their clothes,
he’ll spend hours
sweeping ash from the stones.
it looks like those present
actually care. But here
it may as well be the senate:
there’s chitchat and confusion,
and the putto’s taken off,
blasé as a gull, to hunt
a more successful pair of lovers.
Everyone else is unfortunately
wingless. Perhaps here and there
you see some genuine
sadness, but mostly it’s clear
there’s a problem
to deal with and nobody
with proper credentials on hand.
Dido’s still breathing, eyes open,
as if to say, I’ve done
all the work, here’s the wood
and the wound, all you need
is the flame.
If Virgil says Anna was distraught,
there’s no evidence here:
she’s come to pick
one last fight with her sister.
Dido doesn’t care. She bears it
with an eldest child’s persecuted eyes.
Somehow her own death
has come loose from her—
she’s not really at the painting’s centre,
her death’s not about her.
Nobody’s alarmed here. In back,
a servant despairs
at the mess. These people will hang
around for hours,
wanting platters of fruit,
silk for their tears
and when they leave to air
the smoke from their clothes,
he’ll spend hours
sweeping ash from the stones.
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Ella Jeffery is an Australian poet, scholar and critic. Her first collection of poems, Dead Bolt, won the Anne Elder Award, given annually to the best debut book of poems by an Australian poet, as well as the Puncher & Wattmann Prize for a First Book of Poems. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in journals and anthologies including The Kenyon Review, Ambit, Best Australian Poems, Australian Book Review, HEAT and many others. She teaches creative writing at Griffith University in Brisbane.
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