Charles Meryon

1 Meryon saw it coming (who was he?): No people, so no noise. As it should be. The Bridge. The Morgue. Ghostly round his bed Antipodean atolls and tattoos had fluted, Volcanoes puffed. Then borborygmic sea Forked, at its last gasp, into a V: Down that black gallery and backward slid A syrup, foul, ovum and sperm concocted, The foggy groan of Antichrist. 1863: People mattered nothing, live or dead. Paris by his impeccable etchings emptied: Pointy turrets, windows, not a single head Poking out—and there across the sky, Tortuous, the skeleton birds creak by. 2 As if all the steps had stopped As if all the takes had token As if all the creaks had croaken As if all that weeps had wopped As if all that flips had flopped As if all that mocks had moaken As if all that speaks had spoken As if all that drips had dropped As if all that hopes had hopped As if all that leaps had lopped As if all that aches had oaken As if all that peaks had poken As if all that creeps had cropped As if all that peeps had popped 3 The old aquaforte art is back, thought Baudelaire. Multiple majesty of stone piled on stone; Obelisks of industry discharge into the air Their coalescent smoke. Almost airborne Scaffoldings roped to monuments under repair— Very poetic, beauty so paradoxical I never saw the like; and the sky over it all— Eagles. Tumult. Perspective deepens there With all the dramas that have come and gone. The artist: Once a sailor, now he’ll seek In nooks of masonry a sphinx. I think you’d get a scare To hear him talk