Rembrandt Van Rijn
On certain nights the ghost of Rembrandt Van Rijnwalks the galleries where his masterworks are kept.
Rembrandt's ghost
Heavy for a ghost, he rouses himself againTo trawl the galleries of his dead successes.Although he is spruced with a garland of rosemary,His winding sheet still reeks of mortality and paint,And he still keeps a weather-eyeFor the shades of old creditors,For, dogged interminably by life's misfortunes,Rembrandt Van Rijn died beyond his means.
Anna the prophetess
Dear Anna.Indefatigable!Your eyes still pore over the wakeOf your reading hand,And the words churn in your implacable face.Beneath my carapace of paintYou still count the burnished wonders of your God,Meticulously refresh the ancient bookWith your dogged curiosities,O daughter of Jerusalem,
The Jewish bride
Fine fellow, dressed to the frothy nines,More gorgeous evenThan your pink young bride.Consider, sir, the placementOf your right, proprietary hand,And note that your bride's left hand,Although bonded with a diamond,Contains a small perceptible, no.This, I fear,May prove a most difficult tenancy.
The denial of Christ
I watch again as your Master pauses,And I, too, am caught in the momentOf my own expectation.Peter, I gave you such handsome possibilities,Had your face shining like a saint,And yet still,On this third occasion,You can only find a lie.
St Matthew and the Angel
Ah, the roseate glow of her Flemish hairAnd her fingers that barely kissThe shoulder of the Evangelist;Yet now he must weigh into wordsThe whispers of the comely Seraphim,Must weigh the press of her words,Must weigh the scent of her fingers,Must weigh into whispersThe fragrance of her words.
The night watch
Consider the grandest worthiesWith pike and spike and AquebusAnd muskets primed,Puffed up with lethal expectations,Jostling their importanceWith elbows drawn.Some favour helmetsAnd whims of rakish armour;All are in their Sunday's bestArmed with deadly lace, embroidery and sashJust so.And there shines my sweet SaskiaArmed only with a chicken;The retort of the starting musketStill shudders in her startled face.Ah, the gentlemen are thinking to moveAnd are ready to commence,So I, in courtesy, shall turn my backSo that their clockwork may begin.
The Syndics Guild
Yes Gentlemen,I have reserved to you your protestant blackAnd your bibs as white as souls;And I was careful to recordThe weights and practised measures of your eyes;But I did allow as wellThe flesh of face and handTo rush with life like tropic fruit;And again, old Volckert JanzIs rising to protest such presumption;He knows I could not pay my bills:See how I have left his hand in livid shadow,How it claws the civic chair.
Jeremiah: who laments over