There are lots of ways in which I can relate to the speaker of this poem who thinks that Courbet ‘might capture’ her. I’d like to think he’d paint me as ‘L’origine du Monde’:A scandalous gift for someone important to keep hidden behind a green curtain.
An unused portion of ‘L’origine du Monde’ by Gustav Courbet
Hair still Titian,
but Botticelli’s grip has loosened—
not now Rubenesque,
and probably never;
but Courbet might capture me.
Could I be surreal?
It seems almost likely—
bells in my ears
and fortresses under;
cones have been set on my eyes.
My spring is gone
and summer’s upon me,
rude in its ripening.
I’m espaliered, strung wide and tied,
pinioned, and thus can I fly.
I have not words to describe this pain
That hits like waves
Again and again.
I have not words to describe this space
Just that it’s shaped like you,
It has your face.
The heavy lightness of sunshine
Opens dark eyes that cannot see. You
Are not here
And my heart is caught up in the gauzy ghost of a summer breeze,
Then scattered like petals
To fall where you might tread.
I am oddly pleased with the oh so ‘creative’ titles for today and yesterday’s poetic offerings. Hopefully the poems are marginally better…There was only going to be one poem for today but then I ended up writing two, as you do, and couldn’t decide which one I liked best…
I gave the most transparent hints all week:
This is what I need.
You gave them right back again:
This is not what I need.
Sometimes, the struggle isn’t only yours,
It’s mine too.
Sometimes, behind the smiles you see,
There are tears.
Sometimes, all I need is to know,
Is that you still love me.
Sometimes, perhaps I explain this all wrong;
Sometimes, I should probably just give up,
It was one of those days that meant poetry…
The blind is almost closed
But you find your way in
As streamers of sunshine
That have arrived late
To a celebration that only you and I will attend.
Outside, clouds float, far off voices shout and life happens
To this room, this moment,
How I wish I was that workman
Sitting in his corrugated shed
On a cheap plastic chair drinking tea
And laughing with his mate,
Just waiting to build.
How I wish I was that workman
Sitting with you,
As we waited to build.
By the end of the day I’d given up listening,
What was the point if it wasn’t your voice I could hear?
Faces dissolved in front of me until it was only you I could see
And when I thought, all thoughts became you:
Where were you?
How were you?
Were you thinking of me?
Later, on the train ride home,
The rhythm of train on track
Became your heart,
And the window, where I leant my head,
Became your shoulder.
And when I dozed, my day dreams were of you,
My only dream was you.
The gentle man with musician’s hands
Sits alone and stares at his lonely pint
Half empty, half full.
He sinks the beer, bitter,
And watches as oblivious drinkers drift through the door
All idle chatter and careless faces,
Light not lost,
Whilst he dreams and longs for her,
And looks for answers at the bottom of his glass
That are not there,
There’s a little bird called love
That flies on invisible wings,
Sometimes it comes and sits nearby
So I can hear the song it sings.
The foolish optimist wakes each morning
Still drunk on love and dreams from yesterday.
The sun is shining and the World laughs:
“Wipe that smile from your face,
Put the volume of the day on mute,
Stay stalled in that line of traffic going nowhere,
Wait if you want…
No will come.”