Sillage of Victory
Preamble
My first real encounter with a statue happened recently with a Roman bronze ‘Winged Victory’, specifically the Vittoria alla di Brescia. What haunted me is its motion. Each angle evokes a different aspect, or even personality.
When created, she started her life with a mirror in her hands, while under her left foot lay crushed the helmet of Mars (god of war). Having lost those now, her pose exposes almost more than it did before.
My initial reaction to this information box lay somewhere along the lines of, ‘ahh, the narcissism of victory, eh?’ But as I stepped into her line of vision, replacing myself with her mirror, the possession started. Each viewpoint shows a difference. Just changing one’s position and posture, whole worlds open up. If you replace her mirror with your own eyes — she’s masterly, painting or conjuring; clockwise once — she’s warm, motherly-hugging, love-embracing; from the back — she’s taking off as if in flight, transcendent; then the final angle seems a forward war-charge, ready to battle. Though nothing can replace seeing this for yourself, may my words illustrate. If these in-breaths encourage focus, the pictures I took are below the poem. Thank you to the tireless effort of the archeologists and renovators who have brought her glory once again.
What happened
you look at me, direct
through a mirror at the past
with delicate hand a portrait
painting you with the other,
conjuring a spell
victory once aptly abject
narcissism didn’t last
buried in land my watery gait,
waited, of all a mother
sprung up wellspring tell
me what turning clockwise
looks like your left my right
now a warm embrace is promised
softly falling into the arms
of someone loved
rise rise rise
to meet the might
of victory both of you might not miss
but warm as the charms
of something loved
that move so move again
we must round your back
side where you seem to take
flight the raised leg no longer forward
but up, up
up to the bend in trend that began
war needs peace as if peace breeds war thwack
arise there you deem to rake
the skies with wings as oars would,
awesome current rupturing
next to me again you have been well met
my foot once crushed a helmet
which is not what hell meant
angled headfirst charging forward yelling yet
I will swell into you
Winning here woman so Roman was no man
On the back of conflict confuses a cult
you’re in one still,
don’t look so alone on your pedestal
having lost selving-mirror
and warring-helmet
your pose now exposes more
delving than it did before
will and emotion still motion from your stillness whirled
you now at once stand on and take flight from and from
the ghost that protected the spirit of the fight
