Portrait of a Man

Image of a painting

“Portrait of a Man,” ca. 1470. Hans Memling (ca. 1430-1494). The Frick Collection.

By JEFFREY HARRISON

Hans Memling, ca. 1470 (Frick Collection)

I know this man,
or feel I do,
or think I could—
as though his face
effaced the centuries
between us,

his brown eyes
guileless,
frankly wise,
his gaze, though
slightly to the side,
somehow direct.

Though proud enough,
and prosperous,
to have his portrait
painted by a master,
his dress is plain,
a dark tunic,

the painter
having left out
any markers
of trade, achievement,
or rank that might
define him,

leaving him free
to be simply
a man, or
simply to be
(even his name
has fallen away),
the only note
of ornament
the green epaulets
of distant landscape
that seem to rest
on his shoulders.

[Purchase Issue 18 here.]

 

Jeffrey Harrison’s sixth book of poetry, Between Lakes, will be published by Four Way Books in fall 2020. His previous book, Into Daylight, won the Dorset Prize, and Incomplete Knowledge was runner-up for the Poets’ Prize. His poems have appeared widely in magazines and journals, as well as in Best American Poetry, the Pushcart Prize anthology, and other anthologies.

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Portrait of a Man

Related Posts

top 10 pieces 2025

The Most-Read Pieces of 2025

Browse a list of the ten most-read new pieces of 2025 to get a taste of what left an impact on readers. 2025 was a momentous year for The Common: our fifteenth anniversary, our 30th issue, even a major motion picture based on a story in the magazine.

The Ground That Walks

ALAA ALQAISI
We stepped out with our eyes uncovered. / Gaza kept looking through them— / green tanks asleep on roofs, a stubborn gull, / water heavy with scales at dawn. // Nothing in us chose the hinges to slacken. / The latch turned without our hands. / Papers practiced the border’s breath.