By Harvey Magun
The Birthday by Marc Chagall
I.
Life with my husband was all I could have dreamed it to be.
We would wake up each morning with our limbs intertwined,
and I felt safe and secure with him being so close to me.
We would spend our days in our offices,
sharing circular pastries,
and I never felt so at home, seeing him in his chair that sat before a tapestry.
We embraced the comforting silence of each other’s company
and mundane life became a luxury.
I cared not for the fancy articles of life
because I found comfort in the world when my husband was mine.
We made comedy out of our mistakes rather than grieve
such as when I sewed him a green coat but forgot the sleeves.
He told me he would cherish it, even in death,
but I don’t see how since what a blunder it had been.
I don’t remember when everyday became a blend
but it was soon after he last held my hand,
squeezing tightly as his soul slipped to death.
By the time his gravestone was carved,
I had such guilt for feeling like I should take down his photos.
One would think I was so angry, I could not stand to see his face,
But rather, each photo of the man I loved was merely a reminder
of everything that I had lost.
I welled with tears, walking into every room of what felt like our home
because my brain would fool me with the hope that he would be in bed,
in his chair,
in the garden,
in any room at all.
In some moments,
it felt like he was nearly still there,
calling me “beautiful” as he dozed off in his chair
or sleepily making a speech
about how lucky he was to love someone like me.
I often wept in our garden,
my endless tears for old life became a source for new,
and the garden my husband and I kept slowly grew.
I clipped a few florals and leaves
and set a frame of his face in a room by a balcony.
If I could not give him a birthday gift with him alive,
I would pretend he was, for my own sanity.
As I approached the room with the bouquet in my hands,
a fragment of carpet interrupted my gait.
My face stood still for simply a second
and I felt lips upon mine, but lightweight.
The moment was reminiscent of how my husband’s lips felt,
the way he’d sweep me off my feet to make my heart melt,
but it would not last.
As soon as the sensation had come, his presence was gone.
My heart began to ache,
worse than it had before.
I hated that I wished he would have left my mind sooner
than feeling fragments of ghastly love forevermore.
II.
I remember not when I appeared in this home.
I find myself floating from hall to hall
Watching some woman weep and wail and call
for a husband whose death has left her alone.
I find it a challenge to discover one room
where her tears don’t soak the carpet.
It’s not that I dislike this roommate of mine,
She’s actually quite beautiful to my eyes.
I wish from time to time that she would see that I’m here.
I often sit on a chair near a woven work
and stare back at her when, at the chair, she’d gaze.
One would think she did see me
considering how long she would look in the direction of my face.
I’d feel remorse if I said I pitied her.
Every night, she’d wrap a pillow in a strange green jacket
and cry herself to sleep, holding it.
I thought, at first, that she had just cut the sleeves for it to fit the pillow better.
At a closer glance, I saw no signs of cutting and realized she had made it herself.
Whoever her husband was,
he was lucky to love someone like her.
I wondered if there was a way for me to cheer her mood,
I followed her into the garden on a day she seemed to be more cheery than usual.
I sat in front of her to hopefully capture her attention.
I pulled my neck upwards to be comical, but to no avail,
she continued picking blooms and quickly walked back in.
I was determined to bring a smile to her face.
It’s not that I’m trying to woo her,
but that is a lie.
I wish she would see me.
I wish I could be the pillow that quells her tears.
I wish I was the person she looks for in her bed, the chair, her garden, in any room at all.
I followed her through the house that day
I basked in the beauty of her singing a song as simple as “Happy Birthday”
I wished her song was meant for me.
She carried a bouquet
and I pretended she and I were getting married.
How I would love to sweep her off her feet at the alter,
it would make my heart melt.
She suddenly tripped and flung herself forward
and I took the chance in my fantasy to “kiss the bride”.
Her lips were warm and heavy against my cold form.
I wished it could have lasted forever.
She fell to the ground and wept harder than I had seen before.
and I felt sorry that her loss would haunt her forevermore.
Explanation:
Rather than criticizing Marc Chagall’s painting, I wanted to be able to tell the story of the two people in the painting. The painting, itself, has strange proportions to say the least. I thought it was humorous that the man had a really long neck and no arms, so I tried to piece together what would have led the characters to the way that they are posed in the painting. I have loved this painting for years and thought that it was a very romantic piece, but I could never explain why. Making up a story for it makes it feel more complete. Marc Chagall’s first wife, Bella Chagall, is who the woman in The Birthday is based off of and I find it upsetting that he lost his wife so suddenly. I somewhat wanted to imagine what the death of a spouse would have been like if it had been the husband that died instead. When I was theorizing the plot of my poem, I wanted there to be a small twist. I love that for this poem, the wife is grieving over her husband and is struggling to move on, while the ghost of her husband is clueless as to who his wife is and who he is and continues to fall in love with his wife beyond the afterlife. I added multiple parallels where the husband mirrors lines that were said by his wife.
t the Symphony
