The Gallery
Saturday afternoons we'd go to the museum
To see the famous collection of paintings of war
Individually illuminated in gloomy rooms
The paintings were doors into history
An infinity of framed images some old some new
All seeming huge
we were children then
Each image was a different war
A different point of view but
That was back when everything was new
The paintings were rich with detail
We immersed ourselves in the stories
Played roles within the art
Became this general or that prince
Marshalling our regiments
Dressing our ranks preparing our assaults
Those paintings were the place we had to play
And the games were always real
Surprised by cannon on the flank
One squadron broke its ranks
To mill about impotent against grapeshot
Caught in circular panic
The horses churned the meadow
Stallions eyes were huge as moons
Crazed and frantic animals
Created chaos while
Officers inspired a rally
Of the tattered and dazed
The colonel sat
Calm and alert the wounded
Were mute in their agony
One painting always made me pause
To muse on its familiar scene
A flag and marching men with fifes and drum
The sky's ominous translucent vault
Captured the tattered musicians in mid-stride
The fife corps seemed about
To step out from the huge painting five
Grim men and one dazed boy the colors
Shot torn on a broken staff
Their regiment disintegrating
Smoke veiled ranks mown down
Behind them but loud with pride the flag
The fifes and drum advanced
Patriotism imprisoned in acrylic on canvas
That exhibition made me nod
And hear the music in my head
The drum the fife the foot-
steps of the marching dead
Perhaps it's just a trick
But all who saw agreed
Paint light or point of view
Made that canvas sometimes seem to cry
The surface always was certified as dry
So much has changed
The world's a different place
But the museum remains
A place for rainy Saturdays
There are so many paintings
So much for my son to see
We each have our favorites
Naval battles always catch my eye
The play of light on sails
Shadows across the deck
Men packed together
Leather tough sweat soaked
Groping through the smoke squinting
Against a sudden glint of sun
My son is fond of charges
A cavalry advance
Can leave him in a trance
For half an hour examining
Each lancer memorizing uniforms
Sometimes he cries
To see the gallant horses harmed
But the pictures never loose their charm
A painting can catch the truth
After the chaos of battle
There's so much to set aright
In that suspended moment
The artist shows the politics
Men take with them to war
The museum made my life a braver place
With my son I've tried to pass it on
The paintings open up new worlds
Snapshots of history painted
By expert and amateur in those years
Before chemistry made craft unnecessary
My son has learned to see each battle
From different points of view
Each painting complex with different truths
I like the panoramas of great fleets
Heeled to the lee in majestic battle lines
With this or that part lagging just a bit behind
He prefers a different room
He sees the ranks that stand
Brilliant with bayonets
He is fascinated by horse
An expert on artillery
His devil is details
In my private fantasy
There's the admiral by the mast
Each time the ship rolls
He comes closer to death
There's honor in the dying man
And honor below with the physician's
Saws and clamps and jars
Honor and blood are hard to get apart
A flagship boasts a great supporting cast
Every quarterdeck's a stage
The players show the shape
Of a sad or glorious day
One reason I prefer this gallery
Is its dedication to quality
Besides the details of dress and ordinance
The light and wind are always right
The pictures on these walls keep
The truth of human struggle well in sight
by Jess C. Henderson
... who is educated in creative writing, a former newspaper and
trade journal editor, now writing freelance poems and essays; as
an amateur historian, he writes the Posted
Muster column in this literary magazine. This
composition was revised from "Icon", an earlier iteration.
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