Morning in Zagreb

The barberry bushes around my house need to have a good pruning. Barberry have vicious thorns but seem to need little care, or at least they are happy with the care I give (nothing). Two varieties are planted around the house, one has leaves that run from dusty pink to burgundy and the other has bright yellowish green leaves. I’ve trimmed them but never taken the dead wood out. Last fall I found some articles online to guide me and I watched a few videos on You Tube and some gardening sites. Today I worked on just two. It was sunny and cool, with plenty of birdsong for background noise. I was distracted quite a bit looking at the three raised beds behind the house, the one is mine and the others belong to my next-door neighbor and she let me use them last summer. It’s just March and I have to remind myself of just that fact, nothing is ready to go into the ground at this time: nothing.

This morning I read a poem by A.E. Stallings from Rattle #70, these lines got to me:

“Even before the virus, these
Were nearly empty galleries,
But now we have these cluttered shelves
And halls of statues to ourselves.
Stickers on the floor, in Greek,
Tell us “Watch your apostasies”:
 
“Mind your distance,” so to speak.
But since the guards outnumber us
There is no nearness we need fear,
No tourists herded from a bus;
Here on the coast, the coast is clear.”

I’ve been in those museums that get less than Louvre-like traffic (and there are galleries in the Louvre that need some love). One morning in February 2017 I had the entire Mirmara Museum in Zagreb to myself. I remember wandering room after room and never seeing another being. After a few hours I’d covered about two thirds of the building and checked in with the front desk to ensure I could come back in after lunch with the same ticket, “Of course, Madam.” I walked down to the main square, Ban Jelačić Square, and met Jerry and we shared a sandwich somewhere and then I went back to the museum while he stayed in the square for people watching. When I got back the museum was packed, there must have been ten people around, but most were headed downstairs where there was an exhibition of contemporary art from Croatian artists. When I eventually got downstairs that crowd had thinned out. And the exhibit was really good, really good. 

That late February it was quite warm and most of the days were sunny. We were sitting in King Tomislav Square enjoying the sun on our final day, watching people and dogs and birds when I took notes on this poem:

 
Morning in Zagreb

The man eats & eats & eats
unpacking & repacking his bags.
He unfolds & refolds, sorts & stacks
placing coins, bills & food
into smaller bags. The sun shines
warming a February day & he hangs
his dirty coat on the park bench.
He is still eating. Now he unpacks
a carcass – chicken, rabbit? – & slices
meat from bone. He pulls the soft bread
from a loaf chewing hard. He never stops
eating. Occasionally he throws pigeons
bread, but he keeps the crusts, stacks
& repacks them & then continues to carve
at the meat on the small body.
When he no longer has food enough
on the skeleton, he throws the whole
thing into the grass where two pair
of hooded crows stake claim. The man
has not stopped eating. He has a beer,
he cleans his knife & he tears more bread.
The man eats & eats & eats.