Tuvia Ruebner
Translated from the Hebrew by Lisa Katz with
Shahar Bram
The Ambassadors
I don't know where to
begin.
The main thing is the
skull. But
why this angle?
Here are two sturdy men,
about forty.
One is absorbed in
himself to some extent.
The other stands with his
legs apart,
a foot inside the circle
on the marble floor
as though within the
vault of heaven.
His gown collared in
expensive fur,
its sleeves richly
embroidered,
his strength suppressed
like flashes in an atom
before it breaks open.
The two ambassadors, I
read,
have French names, Jean
de Dinteville,
and Georges de Selve.
The thoughtful one also
knows his worth.
And what is that on a
slant, in the middle?
They are leaning on a
kind of chest
covered with a red
Persian rug , upon which
different instruments are
displayed, navigational tools,
if I'm not wrong, a
compass, a cube,
astrological devices.
A beautiful globe
and on the lower shelf a
lute and a book whose pages are open.
They are humanists, these
ambassadors,
or at least lovers of
fine art.
Holbein the Younger
painted them on oak at the beginning of the 16th century.
Why do these two framed
by the green curtain look at me,
these ambassadors with
strange names,
why do they look at me so
seriously
never letting their
glance falter for a moment,
their eyelids frozen,
and never say a word?
Spring blossomed all at
once,
within a week all the
trees were green
the colors coupled,
separated, coupled,
shouted with joy,
the sky flashed.