Jana Harris ~ Poems

The Horse Fair, poems on the life and art of French ani­maliere Rosa Bonheur (1822–99). Part psy­cho-biog­ra­phy, part spec­u­la­tion and intu­ition, these linked dra­mat­ic mono­logues probe themes of gen­der, class, and artis­tic genius against the back­ground of 19th Century Paris & envi­rons. –Jana Harris

Paris, 1829–1834

Father Gone a Year in Search of Work and a Religion to Bite
His Teeth into; Paris, 1829

(Rosa Bonheur, b. 1822)

A bet­ter life.
Bordeaux to Paris
–two days, three nights–
too long a car­riage ride
for me, a six-year-old, my mother,
lit­tle Auguste and ‘Dodore.
The chill on my arms
made me ask: the griz­zled horizon,
was that what death looked like?
The sky a com­fort­less streak,
nar­row cob­bled car­riage­ways, cliffs
of soot-stained build­ings, avenues
like gut­ter troughs, everything
the many tinc­tures of lead
leach­ing away all joy.

Come night, no stars.

Dampness drift­ed up stone stairs
with street clan­gor so raucous
my head hurt–the July Revolution,
can­non shot rat­tling our door the day
bebe Juliette was born. We were
one step ahead of the squeal
of cholera carts and afraid;
when I heard the slow clomp
of hooves, I ran into the carriageway
to hear the heave and blow.

Father found few pupils and fewer
por­trait sit­tings, but hap­pened upon
a monastery of arti­san apostles.
“A new epoch!” sang the Saint-Simonians:
an end to aris­toc­ra­cy, an androg­y­nous god,
soon the Coming of a female Messiah.

Girls not sent to school, but
I was enrolled with my brothers
at Pere Antin’s school;
Father taught for tuition. Bored,
I drew ani­mal cartoons
and learned to use my fists
thrust just below the heart.
I was short and stout and fast and wore
brown trousers beneath my check­ered skirt.

In class I stood in a corner.
My lunch, one cup of water,
forced mem­o­ry after memory
of sheep breath­ing, the tiny thump
of rab­bit feet padding across
our barn­yard in Bordeaux.
Chastised, swat­ted, threatened;
my writ­ing hand cun­ning as a fox
always found a way.
If I lost the ani­mals, I lost the world;
so I drew them in the air.

After school I took my fits,
my doo­dling, my lingo
–all red in tooth and claw–
and mar­shalled troops
jeer­ing at things puny
and pecu­liar in the Place Royal –
that pro­tect­ed child in a push chair,
sal­low skin, green eyeshade—
Mme. Micas’ petite Nanette.

Our first meet­ing, I would regret
for the rest of my life.

~

Because Mere was Now–and for Always– an Angel
on My Shoulder, I Would Never Again Let My Hair Grow
Longer Than My Chin; Paris 1833

(Rosa Bonheur, b. 1822)

Who would take care of my curls?
Even when Tante brushed it,
rip­ping out snarls, a torture;
even plait­ed it poked
from my head like straw.
Was it she or Nurse who sheared it off?

Tante taught school and gave us
to Mere Catherine in the Champs-Élysées
dur­ing the week. Here the gardens
of the con­vent danced
with aro­mas of Bordeaux–
fig trees, mock orange, ole­an­der. On Sunday
men rode down the avenue
dressed as if for a coronation.
The few ladies ahorse­back sat
pre­car­i­ous­ly, legs to one side,
as if on a park bench.

I want a horse, I told Tante
who scoffed: To top­ple from
and be trod upon?
Never, nev­er, never;
I would ride astride like Joan of Arc!

And look what became of her,
admon­ished the cho­rus. What
was wrong with me?
Part girl, most­ly beast! But
being such, I wasn’t fool­ish enough
to lead an army into battle.
The only voice I lis­tened to
was my own.

I began to draw hors­es in the gravel
on gar­den paths, in the dust,
on scraps of newsprint,
the frontispiece
of Holy Bibles. I wanted
to draw hors­es with eyes
I could reach into and touch
the deep pools of their souls.

But where is the groom?
Tante ques­tioned, a horse
sans han­dler makes no sense.

I was the rid­er. Astride,
with my cropped hair, not only
would I, Rosa, chris­tened Rosalie,
ride taller, fleeter, stronger
to the potter’s field where,
on the first of May, ma belle Mere
had been dumped in a com­mon grave,
but on beyond the stilled tongues
of the dead to where I could again
hear sheep breathe,
smell their grassy breath and

noth­ing more.

~

So that You Could Earn Your Keep and Lead a Decent Life”
Paris, 1834

(Rosa Bonheur, 1822)

How well I remem­ber Pere’s distress
at young chil­dren to care for.
His fel­low sem­i­nar­i­ans missioned
to the wind—a canal at Suez,
a rail­road sys­tem stretching
all the way to Algiers.

After the smoke cleared
from the wreck­age of his family,
Father took us to live with him
on the Quai de l’Ecole.
The floor of his stu­dio, aglitter
with coins tossed into its corners
for safe keep­ing. He cared not
a cen­time for career or money.

Baby Juju sent to Bordeaux,
the boys in board­ing school
to train as teachers–
being an artist, Pere assured,
was no way to earn a living.

Me, he apprenticed
to a dress­mak­er, Mm. Ganiford.
Along with Mere’s jew­el-like hands,
sure­ly I’d inher­it­ed her finesse
with nee­dle and thread. But
I much pre­ferred sit­ting at Pere’s table
in the Café Parnassus, listening
to Saint-Simonians, to sitting
at a seamstress’s sideboard
stitch­ing hems.

They sought my opinion:
Was George Sand the new messiah?
Sometimes, I told them, I preferred
Father’s leather-bound Cervantes.
And the appeal of Don Quixote?
–they quizzed as if I were an equal.

At Mme. Ganiford’s atelier
I sat with my head bowed,
my tongue tied, and my fin­gers bedeviled,
pricked and bleed­ing on priceless
white Chinese fab­ric. I couldn’t
make it clear fast enough that I should
not be trust­ed with some­thing sharp
as scis­sors and escaped to the privy, then
to Madame’s husband’s shop
where I turned the lathe
as he fash­ioned caps for muzzleloaders.
An insur­rec­tion? Monsieur blanched
pale as the bridal silk I’d ruined.

What could Pere do, but school me himself?

Lessons were spo­radic. We made up
sto­ries about Sancho Panza.
I joust­ed in the street with the sons
of his monas­tic brethren.
With Pere’s palettes as shields, brushes
and maul­sticks for swords,
I slew them all, a smattering
of pre­cious oxblood pigment
bat­tle-marred their faces.

To neigh­bor­hood gossips,
I was a boy in girl’s clothing,
to Tante I was a misfit
who drew hors­es unceasingly.
But to Father, I was a pearl.
And to his brethren, my god fathers,
–all thinkers and artists, their dreams
for­ev­er infect­ing my reveries–
I was a mascot.

In the street, whether our parents
were high born or low
we were all chil­dren of the children
of the Revolution.
The glo­ri­ous orange and violet
of a Marais sunrise
demand­ed our pres­ence each morning.

The artist father of a lit­tle boy
I slew dai­ly paint­ed my portrait:
Marie Rosalie ragamuffin–one day
Europe’s great­est animaliere.
[stan­za break]
The youngest mite—no big­ger than
a guppy—who, again and again,
I mimed stab­bing in the heart
with Pere’s palette knife?
The future President
of the Republic of France.

~

E. Geoffroy St. Hilaire Commissions Father to Illustrate
the Flora and Fauna of the Jardin des Plants; Paris, 1834

(Rosa Bonheur, b. 1822)

Enrolled in what­ev­er board­ing school
that would have me, except in drawing,
always at the bot­tom of my class.
At Mm. and Mme. Gilbert’s Academy
I could not sit still or listen,
and spent my time
draw­ing the zoo residents
of the Jardin des Plants
–the famous Abyssinian Giraffe
with her gummed winged raincoat—
and when not daydreaming
about my own menagerie,
car­i­ca­tures of all of my teachers.

I was a char­i­ty student
with­out praise or pock­et money.
Abundantly clear which utensils
were mine; dull tin knives,
sharp-edged tin spoons.

The oth­er lit­tle misses
ate off hand-paint­ed porcelain
using engraved sil­ver flatware.

My clothes made of rough flax,
my shawl of loose-weave wool
looked as if moths had eat­en it.
Trousers instead of pantaloons,
no ruf­fles, no bro­cade aprons,
my dress more beige than white.

Mme. Gilbert swooned over
the oth­ers’ hats and ribbons:
Si belle et intel­li­gente, words she never
spent on me.

I want­ed to be nothing
like them; pret­ty and smart
had not saved my mother.

My car­i­ca­tures of Monsieur and Madam
enthralled my class­mates. I tied each
to a thread, chewed my arith­metic practice
into paste, threw it skyward
and hoped it stuck, hang­ing teacher
from the ceiling.

At home Father found fraternity
in the Knights Templar. One weekend
he took me to the Court of Miracles.
Bestowed with wood­en sword
and card­board sheath,
I was bap­tized Petite Templiere.
Sleepless on my school cot, I kept
these new trea­sures beneath my bed.

One full moon, I buck­led the saber
around my waist, then can­tered downstairs
to meet infi­dels camped
in the Gilberts’ gar­den. With flourish,
I decap­i­tat­ed every come­ly hollyhock.

Expelled before breakfast,
Father took me home to set­tle my fate.
He put paper and pencils,
a plas­ter cast of a sheep in front of me.
“Since the only thing you can do
is draw, these are your tools
from now on.”

My pun­ish­ment bloomed
in my heart. I grasped
a pen­cil: my weapon, my portal,
my polestar. From now on

my future was spun from light.

~

Jana Harris teach­es cre­ative writ­ing at the U of Washington and at the Writer’s Workshop in Seattle. She is edi­tor and founder of Switched-on Gutenberg. Most recent pub­li­ca­tions: You Haven’t Asked About My Wedding or What I Wore; Poems of Courtship on the American Frontier (U of Alaska Press) and the mem­oir, Horses Never Lie about Love (Simon & Schuster).