There is innocence in the nude form of
reclining Lu Varleu, a blonde odalisque from
the page three 'glamour' shots of the 1980s,
innocence that many a woman fully clothed
lacks. Oh, there is certainly sexuality here
(and a hair-style long out of fashion) yet
of the Arcadian variety, of bronze shepherds
and their long-limbed girls without stained
passion embracing, flowing into each other,
becoming marble whitened by time and
an over-eager early curator who had read
his Winckelmann. You can't think, crazy as
it sounds, truly dirty things of her, for there
is purity in the form and the wary gaze.
If you want a woman like her, you need
to be taking your flock of docile lambs
through flowering summer meadows,
in a bucolic landscape out of Hellenistic
pastoral poetry, leaving behind all that
accumulated debris of sexual lust of our
era; and then an act no different from those
lambs of yours mating, pollen entering
a flower. It just is. The purity of sexuality
decades of desire have turned sour.
The kind of which you once knew and
whose memory now flutters in sight,
yet out of your grasp, like those
fabulous curves and that hesitant smile
meant for some Paris who chose old
age over undying fame.
02.-03.04.2024
#Poem #Poetry #Poens #Verse
