NaPM April 03 2016

[cidermaid]

Just a woodcut.


Tradesman:       I cannot stop and dance, I must to market to sell my wares.
                        I will not tarry with you; damask drapes will only waltz
                        and I must trot along. I’ve been allotted a plot to trade;
                        to this spot I must haste,  before the day is laid to waste.

                       Besides, you cannot hide behind the subtlety
                       of your disguise.  You seek to entertain me unawares,
                       detain me ‘til the sun has set and closed the fair.  
                       My enemy has sent you.  A snare to fool me late.

                       I will not danse with you.  I like my partners
                       plump and ripe.  I know not this tango, of which
                       you speak.  I do not seek to twist or tangle feet,
                       or be footloose in freedom’s feast.  Although…

                       it brings to mind the stomp of older times;
                       when the clonk of clogs was used to keep
                       the roaring beasts at bay the night before,
                       whilst the coffin lay in wait, for day-break.

                      Then we would prance in clogs, down to the grave.
                      A last dance, before we laid our love to rest and…
 Death:           Wait!  I see a lion creep to feast upon thy flesh.
                      Here take my clogs to beat the bounds on his intent.

Tradesman:     Alas, I need a wooden box to jump upon, to make
                      sufficient noise to get that sort to leave his prey.
Death:           This yonder yard, will doubtless provide, a casket
                     broad and wide, to ward the lion’s wiles away.

Tradesman:    I will not lay my burdens down, for I will soon
                    be going to town.  Alas again.  It weighs heavy
                    upon my back; I lack the strength of youth,
                    to leap and strike my feet in drum like beats.

Death:          Is that blood that gushes from below?  I fear
                   you may have stubbed your toe.  It is but
                   a small wood cut and yet a cruel and bitter blow,
                   mortal from the flow.  The danse infects thy wound.


Inspiration taken from Holbein's woodcut of the tradesman on his way to Lyon.  (Might yet post up image if I workshop this and turn this into a ...forgotten the name of it type of poem!)
Looked it up Ekphrastic poetry.