Avt tace Avt Loqvere merloria silentio [“Be silent unless your speech be better than silence”]
— Salvator Rosa, inscribed on his
self portrait
This is
Commedia dell’Arte, no doubt: Rosa, in the guise of Brooding
Thought, cocksure thought, the
philosopher all’improviso.
Your mistress Muse looks like you, too, Poet, Painter, Trickster.
I always assume you are there, in the
landscape somewhere.
When you say Be Silent, at first the mouth tightens, like so.
Words disperse, the thoughts behind them thicken into consideration
Until suddenly (What a joke you play, what silence you propose!)
The viewer knows, nervously avoiding your eyes--
Eyes (Oh, the right one, the one that knows!) of an impresario--
That I'm imagining the outside view, looking at reflections
Of me-as-a-[you decide], talking double to the self and to us,
Philosophizing you.
Pascariello, you; and Soldier you, too.
This is better than silence. The selves, they mask and dance,
They play each other,
Capitano, they play you. Glancing
at us only to fool us and seduce us with the
rôle,
the dress, that currently catches your interest, ours.
Though the question is amateurish, I must ask,
Where are you? Displeased, droll, looking slightly down
on Naples? The ragged clouds and sepia air you project
are atmosphere for your command, your
dramatis persona.
When is speech better than silence? Which silence, the silence
Of the canvas? or my furrowed brow and frowning mouth?
I imagine a play with a frame in the middle: I consider
The quiet to be dangerous and so chatter like a sparrow.
You remain unmoved, but formulate responses in the form
Of different attitudes. I look on, postulate a theory, content
To quote experts, provide allusions. You display props
And change into costumes that say by synecdoche.
It’s all in my imagination, of course. My mind’s eye.
The
reader may imagine me before the picture in England,
Infatuated by a handsome face long dead, the love of illusion,
Sublimating for hours while people pause, and then pass.
My thoughts buzz and hum in this public display of affection,
While I stand still as that painted stone. The reader may know,
But silence there. Silence here. We operate in the same circles,
Whoever you are. You say, Imagine me centuries from now,
Staring at you tricked out in my mind, limned
With a darkening sky behind you, frowning at me darkly,
Wondering if centuries from now you would be
Staring at me intensely, cautious, ready to speak.
