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 love you.
You drown me in blue.
I miss you.
For me, it’s only you.
I’m not so good at writing this kind of stuff but I do enjoy reading it…Came across this the other day, great words and I love the picture. wordsofkings
This I miss.
Here is a flag:
Like my skin.
White like surrender,
The whitest sin.
White like calm and white like flame
A cotton sheet
Of white-hot anger.
Here is a flag:
Unfurled with desire.
White sand of time
The truth and the liar.
My man is made of paper,
He is the blank page I write my dreams on,
And re-write my dreams on.
It gets complicated,
Or likes to think he is,
But I know each fold and crease of him,
I’ve traced them a million times with my hands
With my mind.
I try hard
To smooth the edges, the angular corners
That frustrate as I attempt to follow the instructions, like
Refuses to bend at every turn
Until, suddenly, there he is
My paper man,
Three dimensional and beautiful,
Words, skin, love, paper dreams, within my hands.
Struggling for a title for this one – any more inspired suggestions most welcome…
Today the clock ticks too slowly
Tomorrow it will run too fast
When the nearliness of future
Becomes the sadness that it’s passed.
When I see you
My heart doesn’t know what to do with itself;
It wants to leap from my chest
In the same way I want to leap into your arms
Hold on so tightly that I squeeze the breath from you
And kiss your lips, your face, your neck,
A hundred times,
A thousand times,
When I kiss you in all the folding places
of your body, you make that noise like a dog
dreaming, dreaming of the long run he makes
in answer to some jolt to his hormones,
running across landfills, running, running
by tips and shorelines from the scent of too much,
but still going with head up and snout
in the air because he loves it all
and has to get away. I have to kiss deeper
and more slowly – your neck, your inner arm,
the neat creases of your toes, the shadow
behind your knee, the white angles of your groin –
until you fall quiet because only then
can I get the damned words to come into my mouth.
Throw the clay roughly to your potter’s wheel.
Watch it spin between your legs as you stroke it gently,
Play with it,
Make it wet.
Press thumbs into it, fingers,
Quicker, deeper and with more urgency
As sticky clay opens up and rises to meet you
Threatening at any moment to lose form,
Collapse in on itself: An inverted whirlpool
Of a million possibilities
Stay firm, leather hard and resolute to your task.
Run the dripping clay through your hands
So that you feel every curve and swell,
Hollow and lip of your creation
Slide and slip beneath your godly potter’s touch
Until it comes finally, with kiln and fire, to life.