Archive for Susannah
Susanna ei vecchioni
Posted in Painting with tags Guido Reni, Susannah on November 4, 2016 by Dylan Thomas HaydenGuido Reni
Susanna and the Elders, c. 1606
Posted in Painting with tags Giuseppe Cesari, Susannah on October 4, 2015 by Dylan Thomas HaydenSusanna and the Elders, 1636-39
Posted in Painting with tags Peter Paul Rubens, Susannah on August 27, 2015 by Dylan Thomas HaydenSusanna and the Elders, 1643
Posted in Painting with tags Massimo Stanzione, Susannah on December 23, 2014 by Dylan Thomas HaydenArtemisia Gentileschi VIII
Posted in Painting with tags Artemisia Gentileschi, Susannah on December 30, 2010 by Dylan Thomas HaydenSusanna III
Posted in Painting with tags Jacopo da Empoli, Susannah on September 3, 2010 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Jacopo da Empoli, 1600
Susanna II
Posted in Painting with tags Francesco Hayez, Susannah on August 3, 2010 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Francesco Hayez, 1850
Artemisia Gentileschi I
Posted in Painting with tags Artemisia Gentileschi, Susannah on June 30, 2010 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Susanna and the Elders, 1610
Peter Quince at the Clavier
Posted in Painting, Poetry with tags Albrecht Altdorfer, Susannah, Wallace Stevens on June 20, 2010 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned —
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps’ uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind —
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body’s beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden’s choral.
Susanna’s music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death’s ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
–Wallace Stevens