(In memory of the artist Brendan Forman)
The 18th-century stairs retain few intact banisters.
On the floor below your studio a door left unlocked
Yields a glimpse of boards bedecked with an array
Of dismantled entrails of antique Victorian clocks.
But first I must climb steep flights of bare stairs
To eventually find myself again in that cold attic,
Smelling of oil paints and gas from a leaking heater,
Where, propelled by curiosity, you are immersed
In canvases that explore the limits of the cosmos,
Unperturbed by such things as monetary success.
This untended Georgian house possesses no doorbell,
No intercom by which I might check if you’re at work.
Henrietta Street resounds to the sounds of my calling
Up to your attic window, “Brendan, are you still there?”
Dermot Bolger is an Irish novelist, playwright and poet, whose 15th novel, Hide Away, was published in 2024.
The 18th-century stairs retain few intact banisters.
On the floor below your studio a door left unlocked
Yields a glimpse of boards bedecked with an array
Of dismantled entrails of antique Victorian clocks.
But first I must climb steep flights of bare stairs
To eventually find myself again in that cold attic,
Smelling of oil paints and gas from a leaking heater,
Where, propelled by curiosity, you are immersed
In canvases that explore the limits of the cosmos,
Unperturbed by such things as monetary success.
This untended Georgian house possesses no doorbell,
No intercom by which I might check if you’re at work.
Henrietta Street resounds to the sounds of my calling
Up to your attic window, “Brendan, are you still there?”
Dermot Bolger is an Irish novelist, playwright and poet, whose 15th novel, Hide Away, was published in 2024.
