The Dead Christ Andrea Mantegna (1431-1506)

POEM ABOUT CHRIST
A Mantegna or Holbein reproduction – the body as a landscape.
We are accustomed to distorted tales,
To a dead apparition, and this landscape is ours.

How we crucify Christ anew,
And read Kazantzakiss novel
With zealous haste.
Christ is dead – and that is our flaw.

Christ lives – and the heavens above us
Shine with a sum of light – Christ lives –
They proclaim.
Merciful to sins,
We do not cultivate spiritual roses.

The waters of Jordan shine
With fiery and golden brocade,
And embrace the Son of Man with light – stand firm!

The path to deification, given to
The Son of Man, we will not repeat!
In our deceitful modern age –
It would be so absurd. Go forth!

A dove gently turns golden in the sky.
The Son of God goes to preach.
Black faces all around, dull,
A futile whirl of pale deeds.

How can he, born in a cave,
Acquire royal power, dense authority?
The wise men came, believing in the event.
Hades craved the sacrifice in vain.

They rode on blue – and round –
Snow on camels and donkeys.
The shepherds went – the night bloomed with absurd,
Unfathomable joy in their hearts.

... in the office, a scam is unfolding,
The fat boss rubs his hands together.
There are limits to crimes, however.
Is Christ born in every heart?

Master Eckhart said: Being born
In Bethlehem could happen a thousand times –
Unless it happens in your heart,
Then its just a story about nothing.

Here is the flight to Egypt, key event,
For the angel proclaimed it.
What then? Your heart troubled,
You ponder. The substance of events
You strive to feel – or did Christ comprehend
The wisdom of light in the East?
But the Gospel verses
Will remain silent. However, there is a question.

Here is the miracle catch –
The Rebbe gained disciples.
Temptation in the wilderness,
A word of light canceled it.
Many words
We know, thinking that they are united
With the eternal Word of Words.
Who today will be captivated by vanity?
Few are willing.

... wars raged fiercely into reality,
Wars where blood was spilled for faith.
Arrows, spears, as if life is banal,
And love is distorted around us.

Christ enters Jerusalem,
Here he cleanses the temple from the greedy.
The Last Supper – a real one,
People will never know such a thing.

Who was Joseph of Arimathaea,
Who collected Christs blood in a chalice?
Fulfilling his duty to being
In that bitter, beyond-complex hour.
You are great, Christ – I know, I know,
I am a writer – immeasurably small.
And – alas, I do not suffer for you,
But am stung by the sum of evils.

You are great – to you I turn,
Living word! Revive
The soul, if I cannot comprehend it –
If it is in sin, almost in blood?

A garden full of lights, and torches blaze
In the hands of soldiers, and here
Christ is taken, and passions pierce
People – he is full, waiting for something.
Pontius Pilates trial – a trial not a trial in essence.
He could have sent legions instead,
Dressed as zealots... But that path
Is impossible, even though Pilate craved
To release such a poor man.
But the Law cannot be changed.

If Christ came from the word,
Then events must follow the word.

They flogged him fiercely, mocked him,
And wove a crown of thorns.
And in a crimson cloud they frolicked,
The petty concerns of flesh.

Christ went on, he went on, bent by the cross,
Blood was created in capsules of sand.
Holy blood...
Laughter, sharp tales,
Torn fabric, and curiosity – where is love?
Its spherical volume is above us.
Who gives alms to the poor today?
Who fears sin? Well – not a flame:
Sin is pleasant, it can hardly burn.

The sphere of love is above us.
Christ goes through a labyrinth of torments.
What enmity did we raise as a banner,
Our ignorance asks –
The true ignorance of seeing,
Separating essence from tinsel.
Worship! Here is your rock idol!
Rejoice – life is a game of this kind.

Christian churches cannot
Heal the cracks with love.
We are holier! We are closer to Christ!
Inter-church dialogue will not happen.
We see nothing above the roof.
I do not judge – I reflect.
Here.

Here goes Christ, bent by the cross.
Here he is crucified. Resurrected. Light shines.
We grow – and steadily create
The garden of life.
And there are no alternatives.

Это – ошибка. Картина, репродукция которой здесь размещена, принадлежит кисти Аннибале Карраччи – выдающегося итальянского художника, одного из основателей Болонской Академии, за свои заслуги похороненного рядом с Рафаэлем в Пантеоне. Кстати, на Вашем сайте эта атрибуция тоже зафиксирована.)) http://gallerix.ru/storeroom/2136404724/N/666139203/
А картина А. Мантеньи, ныне находящаяся в Милане, выглядит совсем иначе: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Andrea_Mantegna_034.jpg

Спасибо, пока подгрузим файл с википедии
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“Возможно, самой необычной картиной Мантеньи, требующей особого вниманья, является “Мертвый Христос” или Cristo in scurto…Небольшой предмет на заднем плане рядом с подушкой дает ключ к пониманию картины: это сосуд с мирром. Возможно Мантенья решил изобразить момент помазания тела умершего по иудейскому обычаю, и каменная плита, на которой лежит Спаситель, – одна из главных реликвий христианства, которая хранилась в Константинополе и исчезла после взятия города турками в 1453 г. На ней тело Христа готовили к погребению.”

Александр Раух