Homage to Edvard Munch

Memory enchants me,

in this sombre house,

where I paint on canvas

furnished by my aunt

who rocks in her black chair,

against lace-curtained light,

rocks and thinks in her heavy chair.

In the neighbour room my sister,

propped on cushions,

with her orange, ruddy hair,

suffers in oil. As her slow disease

pursues its course, I watch her gaze

through sea-green curtains,

at a pine house amid orchard trees.

Above in bed I crouch,

my mother lies below

amid the smell of fir

and burning wax and pine,

Berta sang and I

recall how I saw angels

floating in open sky;

my mother stroked our cheeks,

and said goodbye.

I who write my epitaph

within a gas-lamp glow,

hear children sing,

smile and weep and laugh.

My father Christian,

apart in his low chair,

metes out punishment

to children of sin.

Life shrinks to the shape

which prays at the bed’s foot.

Death, insanity, disease,

were angels at my cradle.

In this still air,

I paint my religion of despair.

In breathless awe,

I render what I see,

of what I saw.

©Terry Hodgson2020