Albrecht Dürer and me
Albrecht Dürer and me
David Zieroth
Copyright © 2014 David Zieroth
1 2 3 4 5 — 18 17 16 15 14
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Harbour Publishing Co. Ltd.
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Edited by Silas White
Cover design by Shed Simas
Text design by Carleton Wilson
Printed and bound in Canada
Harbour Publishing acknowledges financial support from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada
isbn 978-1-55017-674-2 (paper)
isbn 978-1-55017-675-9 (ebook)
For those who called me away, and for those who called me back
Nothing, above all, is comparable to the new life that a reflective person experiences when he observes a new country. Though I am still always myself, I believe I have changed to the very marrow of my bones.
— from Italian Journey by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, translated by W. H. Auden and Elizabeth Mayer
dislocation
Viennese shoes
in Wien, even the homeless wear good shoes
or at least one bedraggled, bearded, filthy-
coated giant managed uncommonly decent leather
brogues that toe-curl a bit, an Italian smile
intimating heat and lust and care for craft
yes, any change of place forces up generalizations
rife and ready, and even knowing how quickly
scenes arise in the mind: lithe men, short hair
long strides, briefcases, or young artists debating
over Styrian beer and new wine spritzers the edge
of mathematical, abstract space – I know really
very little: glittering steel lines of the tram
on Ungargasse, straight under my feet
and along some sections, short grass snuggles
green against silver – earth and engineering
power-sharing – what could either say to the other
about times when heels of famous men
clacked these cobblestones: Freud’s boots, how he
slipped into leather smoothly pleased with strength,
and Hitler’s shoes, paint bespattered, then further back
and further back again until an Ottoman stands
outside the ringed wall of the city, 300 cannon strong
the story goes, Grand Vizier Pasha tapping
his magnificent Asian slippers on these stones
passport . . .
inspected and stamped, leads to
towers and gargoyles – and cafés
the ruined faces of fathers
wide, haughty mouths of mothers
their children oblivious
except to couples
kissing on stone bridges
an old man crossing himself
as he bicycles past a cathedral
document made to bend
though not in the eyes of the law
a young woman looks at me
frankly, then waves me on
to empty my pockets, remove
my belt and pass beep-free
through their ultra-machine
these open-faced beings
the way they gaze
the pale madonnas awaiting me
lean to the left, ear touching
the baby’s head, he so finely
detailed, as if Florentine artists
wanted to paint more of their power
into him than into her:
his divine versus her blessed
how her near-blandness recalls
the manner of those calm guards!
upright in blue shirts
watching at entryways
a touch of knowledge
dusting their cheeks
train ride
passing through Linz I notice trains
preternaturally, not the cylinders
for carrying acid chemicals
graffiti
