#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook girl

There are times I wish I was a painter.
That I could just walk up to that girl, I saw
and flatter her to pose
for me
in a fashion that desperately tried to recapture
what it was I saw.

I'll have her with an urn on her shoulder,
or reading a book naked,
or floating down the river with flowers.

What I won't have, is...

That passing moment of time,
when happenstance caught her on the back-steps of the church
when I happened to be passing:
in an idle moment of dis-satisfaction;
and startled her in the action of lighting a cigarette.

I won't have that.

Nor will I have the perfection of her youth
caught in the revulsion at my form
and the interplay between the two:
that makes an old man's heart skip:
and jellifies the female form.

But if I could paint her
I am sure I could find countless other old people
willing to admire my eye.

But as a poet one must rely
on those moments when thinking nothing
inspiration comes without words...
to be lost in the telling
unless you resort to the lying
of the visual arts.

No comments:

Post a Comment