The Quest for Hieronymus BoschA Poem by David Lewis PagetHieronymus Bosch, who was only four, Had toddled right out of my life, I didn’t know whether he’d gone on his own Or left with the trouble and strife. She’d rave and she’d threaten to fly the coop As she said that my ways were strange, But whether she’d bother to take him too Would have meant a remarkable change.
‘Why did you pick such a horrible name,’ She’d say, as she ladled the stew, ‘You gave him the name of a painter insane,’ (As he baited the bears at the zoo). ‘How can he live a commonplace life With a moniker he can’t spell? You’ve sentenced your son to eternal strife Like that panel, a painting of hell.’
Hieronymus, he didn’t care about this, He wanted to picture his world, He’d flop and he’d slop in the mud, in his bliss, And paint, till his toes had curled. I knew that he’d be a surrealist when He played with his mash, and was cute, He swished it around on his palette to look Like a man with a nose like a flute.
‘That kid is so gruesome,’ the wife had exclaimed, ‘He’s set on a roadway to hell.’ He’d crayoned a picture of me and her sister Entwined on her favourite bell. ‘He isn’t like others,’ I used to exclaim, ‘He sees what he sees inside out, He doesn’t like others, like hair-splitting mothers,’ And that’s when she started to shout.
I’ve searched and I’ve searched for Heironymus Bosch, I’m trying to follow his trail, The long line of beetles he captured in treacle, The dead dog that’s eating its tail. I know that he’s not with the trouble and strife For she went into hiding in Greece, He should be called Chester, the lad’s such a jester, I guess I’ll be calling the Police.
David Lewis Paget © 2015 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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