 The Temptation of Eve, Cathedral of Saint-Lazare in Autun, France, by Gislebertus (France) 1130 To a Slide of The Temptation of Eve in a Lecture on Medieval Art . I was twenty when I first saw you – languid, almost luxuriating in the shrubbery, an Eve as slender as I was then; I saw you whispering to Adam behind your cupped right hand, while your left hand, with an independence of its own, plucked the fruit. A presence lay over you like a sheet – that split awareness – even as you fingered the fig, sensing the fruit was tainted, you kept going, regardless; a momentum that nagged me like a twitch or a recurrent dream. I had ricochetted from a dead-end job in Boston to marriage in this small upstate town, a marriage I did not believe in, to a man who hoped I’d save him – God, we were all clueless about loving, about living; searching for truth while we turned away.  The Creation of Even from Adam, by Raffael Sanzio (Italy) 1500 Eve Letter: Annular Eclipse Dear Still-To-Be-Plucked, You are not here yet. As Adam sleeps, fingers massage the puncture in his side. The summoner’s eyes look inward as if to conjure something unknown – . None of us are here yet. No traffic jams of tourists waiting to glimpse the annular eclipse. Sometimes a miracle is seen with special glasses that block visible light, or photographed as an image in the mirror. None of us visible yet.  Madonna and Child Enthroned, detail, by Giuliano di Simone Ricci (Italy) 1388 Eve Letter: Detail with Serpent Dear Looks-At-Herself, The room is serene with angels. You wrap yourself in the gray blanket, look up to see hovering 3 feet above the floor a girl-face, a copy of your own – but on a snake body. Erect torso of scales. Her look, cold as spear-point, passing from her to you to generate a blaze of light, is clearer than you see yourself. Last night a barred owl passed the window. Nothing but cold wind came in – Cold wind and owl sound. A sense of lost. There are days when you don’t know If you are snake, or naked Eve, or Madonna. Days when the question is the only thing worth saying.  Untitled, detail, by Madge Gill (England) 1922. Collection de l’Art Brut, Lausanne. With thanks to Charles Russell, author of Groundwaters: a Century of Art by Self-Taught Artists (Prestel Publishing). To Eve, on Seeing Untitled, by Madge Gill Dear Trusting, In the garden of white faces, orbs spin in unstable ground: wavering checks, stripes, crosshatched stars. A jungle ripe with dolly eyes, Angels – everywhere angels. I’m trying to understand your fall (if it was a fall). Rabbi Steinsaltz tells me angels are living beings in the world of feeling – not complex, but higher—meaning closer to impulse, a cause of results. The angel, an impulse also made by Him. Why would you, amid the garden of fans, sunbursts, pinwheels and ferns -- suspect? It’s said, in paradise, you had no conscience, only bliss. After the tasting, you look and look for a way back, or forward. So many eyes. ** Author's Note: The poem references the work of self-taught artist Madge Gill, 1882-1961, who was also a spiritualist and medium. The drawing referenced in this poem appears in the book, Groundwaters: A Century of Art by Self-Taught and Outsider Artists, by Charles Russell. The poem paraphrases a teaching from The Thirteen Petaled Rose, by Adin Steinsalz.  Birthright, by Allison Weld (USA) 1997. Courtesy of the artist. Eve Letter: Home Economics Dear Covered-up, The question of identity invades this painting, a diptych like yourself. Right panel – purple snail-tracks repeat on cotton broadcloth. the gift of order, or a trap – the glistening a snail bestows on leaves – coverings sewn by yourself. The left, a wilderness in mauve – a few red flames, wry undergrowth of mud and milk. Brushstrokes calculate the sentience of texture. That riot beneath the skin – stirring, stirring.
Upside Down Eve writes as a character living in one of Chagall’s windows at Union Church, Pocantico Hills NY. When I see bodies flying through the air, and empty space revealed-- riddled with blue angels-- when I see Isaiah wrapped in the arms of a seraph who holds something like a chocolate, tenderly to his mouth, I’m puzzled; the Old Testament is so severe, but the seraph’s face is like the artist’s face, and playful; Isaiah accepts God’s burning coal on his lips as if nothing could be more gentle. I turn to Ezekiel feeding on a parchment-stream offered by an angel who dangles upside down, demure as a luna moth. The parchment, embossed with the fearsome Word, tastes like honey, says scripture; and here is Chagall, himself an exile, telling us it’s about love. Near the nave, a shipwrecked person reaches for the Cherubim. Look— her mauve robe vibrates with electricity, I could stroke it like velvet—gaps unveil happy squares of cobalt and aquamarine, and her wings are peacock patchwork—oh, she is sweet, not fiery, though she guards Eden; with Adam, I am waiting hopeful in the wings across the aisle, Elijah rises in a bonfire of donkeys, ears laid back—they are all eyes in a whirlwind that is sunlight pouring through autumn leaves-- and all this colour makes me giddy as if the strokes of paint on glass are sable brush-tips feathering a limb or nerve. Kathryn Weld "To a Slide of The Temptation of Eve in a Lecture on Medieval Art" was first published in Big Other. "Eve Letter: Detail with Serpent" was first published in Big Other. "Eve Letter: Home Economics" was first published in Big Other. Kathryn Weld is the author of AFTERIMAGE (Pine Row Press 2023) and a chapbook, WAKING LIGHT (Kattywompus Press 2019). Her poetry and prose appear in journals such as The American Book Review, The Cortland Review, Gyroscope Review, The Southeast Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, SLANT, and elsewhere. A mathematician as well as a poet, she is Professor Emeritus at Manhattan University. Find her online at www.kathrynweld.com.
1 Comment
8/3/2026 10:33:13 pm
How beautiful and delicate these poems are, so artfully crafted as to bring forth fragrance, not just words and rhythms. Thank you, Kathryn. Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
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