Galleria Borghese



How the mighty fall, they say.
A might head, clutched in a delicate hand, is all that is left of such a monstrous being.
Goliath, he was called, a rent in his skull and blood on his blue lips.
David is his final witness,
         Judge,
       Executioner.
In his feathered cap he stands contrapposto, 
a gentle hand curled lovingly around the hilt of his deadly sword. 
His eyes are unreadable, full of fire and a strange sort of mirth
That one so fearsome should fall at his feet in such a graceless display.

David hoists his trophy,
And its unseeing gaze pierces the nearby horizon,
Strong, noble brow forever marred by savage furrows
Unlike those of his killer.

His young face is soft with the remnants of boyhood,
All ruddy cheeks and aristocratic jaw.
But this is no boy that stands armor-less on the battle field,
With the confidence of a soldier emanating from his limbs and careful stance.

The darkness behind him beckons, leaving 
Everything

And nothing to the imagination of romantic minds. 

What of this scene is so alluring to the eye?
A bare shoulder glistens in an unearthly light.
A head of dark hair adorns his proud, regal head.
A killing wound, yet a murder weapon there is not.

Where is your sling, O King of Israel?

The aftermath awaits:
Goliath is dead, an unfathomable weight upon an arm that can carry any burden. 
In this moment, in the battle field there is no-one but the two of you,
Frozen in triumph and in eternal slumber.

(David with the head of Goliath, Caracciolo

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Aventine Hill

Up on the Aventine, there are less voices to be heard in this gentle wind-swept place. Yet, it is not silent. Here, next to Santa Sabina and among the orange trees I sit, dampness from the wooden bench I’m perched on seeping slowly into my clothes. The rain has passed, and the birds resume their cheerful tittering in the warm rays of the sun. I can hear the rustle of the leaves and the flapping of wings moved by the gentle breeze whispering across my bare arms. The birds themselves express their personality though sound. From the deep, harsh caw of the Hooded Crow, the almost human outbursts from the gulls, to the reedy singing from various songbirds, the high pines are alive with a symphony that any garden would be proud to house.   Water droplets fall from the canopy, a left over from the morning’s stormy weather. I have to cover my paper so that the water does not bend and warp the fibers into something soft and malleable. A burst of wind shakes free another sun shower,
Read more

Piazza Cavour

It was almost time. The young man swung his jacket back and forth as he bounced on his toes in anticipation. The older man beside him looked on silently, his face unreadable. The young man had been under his training for some time now, and it was almost time for him to finally enact his plans. The older man slowly evaluated the boy’s movements, every so often interrupting him to correct his form or fix his posture.   From the shade of the tall palm trees the boy craned his neck to stare up the back of Camillo Cavour. This was partly his fault, after all. Next to the boy, seated on the curb was a fellow soldier, with a bright yellow Three on the sleeve of his polo. Number two couldn’t make it today, so there were only two brave soldiers going through their preparations. Today was the day; the two boys were going to mount an assault of the Palazzo de Giustizia to return Rome to Papal control.   This was the way that Italy was meant to be; at least thats what their father
Read more

Keats Shelley Memorial House

It was pleasantly warm when Emma and I set off on a brisk walk from St. John’s on our way to the Keats Shelley Memorial House. The two of us were excited, as both of us have a love for the work of both John Keats and Percy Shelley. I myself had a particular interest in seeing the small rooms where Keats stayed during his time in the Eternal City as I had learned more about him and Shelley for my site report on the Non-Catholic Cemetery, where both men are buried.   The Piazza de Spagna was bustling with noisy tourists and street vendors, the most memorable of which was a man pretending to play the violin for a crowd of hoodwinked onlookers. The museum itself wasn’t hard to find; the sign was large and red, clearly displaying the names of the two poets right on the corner next to the steps. We pushed our way through the crowd, past the fountain, and made our way to the heavy wooden doors of the museum. I stopped to check the time: 5 o’clock, one hour before the museum close
Read more