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#tirol
Admiration is the cousin of envy, as I learned long ago in Austria. I knew a girl from a village in the Tirol. I don’t remember her face, Except for the placid smile on her berry red lips. She was not beautiful, but pretty in a Mägdlein sort of way, "smelling of crushed daisies and sweat". But her long, butter-yellow hair, seemed to have fallen from the sun. She wore a black, Dirndl vest that hugged her torso, a white blouse, and a long. striped, pink skirt. Even her legs were beautiful, With tiny, blonde hairs that glistened. I wished I could be like her: Simple-seeming, unaware, unquestioning. I watched her stand on a rocky ledge, On a little mound like a pedestal That overlooked an green-blue alpine valley. She was a poem or an imagined girl From a fairy tale or an ad for Priumula. She was a goddess escaped from the the netherworld of dairy barns and milking cows. I thought that she might never return there from her lofty peak at the world.. But another girl stood beside her. A spartan sort with round glasses And a face like a Pug dog. She seemed to stand guard, In a sexless, violent way, Threatening those who might approach. I fantasized about pushing her off the cliff, Just to rid us of her presence. The altitude was spinning my thoughts, Wondering what would happen To this Hummel Fräulein someday. Would she follow the other youth to Vienna, Smoke and drink espresso in a café, Or come back to her alpine home And milk goats while her children played? The next day, as if still drugged, I strolled across the bridge to Germany And the river path to Freilassing. There I bought a new, blue blouse With a heart shaped neck And brown, corduroy slacks. It was the best I could do then And Dirndls were not cheap. So I spent the summer As an ersatz Austrian, No longer an American with jeans. My freedom was almost euphoric, Including dodging classes About Bertolt Brecht, Kurt Weill, Die Dreigroschenoper, Those overrated poseurs! (Except for Mack the Knife.) I even attended Mass at various cathedrals, just to hear Mozart or Schubert dance up in the arches with cherubs, or in front of ancient, colored glass in the gloom of medieval stone. I accepted that The Tyrolean Girl And her antique, sunlit style Were as inaccessible as Gentian and columbine, mist-shrouded on high peaks wrapped in clouds. I once ran to see some up close And nearly passed out. But knowing that, I felt their charm Had descended from the heights To entice us in the valleys, With pink striped cloth, gold hair And amethyst flowers. They flee past us like time, Swift as the rivers in Spring.
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Apr 5, 2022
Apr 5, 2022 at 11:23 AM UTC
sharon-talbot
Tirolean Girl
Admiration is the cousin of envy, as I learned long ago in Austria. I knew a girl from a village in the Tirol. I don’t remember her face, Except for the placid smile on her berry red lips. She was not beautiful, but pretty in a Mägdlein sort of way, "smelling of crushed daisies and sweat". But her long, butter-yellow hair, seemed to have fallen from the sun. She wore a black, Dirndl vest that hugged her torso, a white blouse, and a long. striped, pink skirt. Even her legs were beautiful, With tiny, blonde hairs that glistened. I wished I could be like her: Simple-seeming, unaware, unquestioning. I watched her stand on a rocky ledge, On a little mound like a pedestal That overlooked an green-blue alpine valley. She was a poem or an imagined girl From a fairy tale or an ad for Priumula. She was a goddess escaped from the the netherworld of dairy barns and milking cows. I thought that she might never return there from her lofty peak at the world.. But another girl stood beside her. A spartan sort with round glasses And a face like a Pug dog. She seemed to stand guard, In a sexless, violent way, Threatening those who might approach. I fantasized about pushing her off the cliff, Just to rid us of her presence. The altitude was spinning my thoughts, Wondering what would happen To this Hummel Fräulein someday. Would she follow the other youth to Vienna, Smoke and drink espresso in a café, Or come back to her alpine home And milk goats while her children played? The next day, as if still drugged, I strolled across the bridge to Germany And the river path to Freilassing. There I bought a new, blue blouse With a heart shaped neck And brown, corduroy slacks. It was the best I could do then And Dirndls were not cheap. So I spent the summer As an ersatz Austrian, No longer an American with jeans. My freedom was almost euphoric, Including dodging classes About Bertolt Brecht, Kurt Weill, Die Dreigroschenoper, Those overrated poseurs! (Except for Mack the Knife.) I even attended Mass at various cathedrals, just to hear Mozart or Schubert dance up in the arches with cherubs, or in front of ancient, colored glass in the gloom of medieval stone. I accepted that The Tyrolean Girl And her antique, sunlit style Were as inaccessible as Gentian and columbine, mist-shrouded on high peaks wrapped in clouds. I once ran to see some up close And nearly passed out. But knowing that, I felt their charm Had descended from the heights To entice us in the valleys, With pink striped cloth, gold hair And amethyst flowers. They flee past us like time, Swift as the rivers in Spring.
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