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Literature Text
I find you amidst dust and alabaster
where you stand in smooth, marble pride.
Your skin is stiff and plastered
against all my caresses. You hide
the rhythm of the stone in your chest
but my straining ear heard its beat
while my own lilting heart knew unrest.
The divine Art of Venus I will not entreat,
for it was not my hands that carved
your body. Still, like Pygmalion playing
lover to his ivory girl, I am starved
for flesh to yield to my fingers, praying
that my own art, not divine or of stone,
can still make your heart revealed
to me. Let it be my own art alone
that will make such cold marble yield.
where you stand in smooth, marble pride.
Your skin is stiff and plastered
against all my caresses. You hide
the rhythm of the stone in your chest
but my straining ear heard its beat
while my own lilting heart knew unrest.
The divine Art of Venus I will not entreat,
for it was not my hands that carved
your body. Still, like Pygmalion playing
lover to his ivory girl, I am starved
for flesh to yield to my fingers, praying
that my own art, not divine or of stone,
can still make your heart revealed
to me. Let it be my own art alone
that will make such cold marble yield.
Literature
O, For A Muse Of Fire
She liked to watch him play the violin. She wasn't sure why - but she could not truthfully imagine anything more pleasurable than crouching down near to where he stood in all his rag-festooned glory, the ground at his feet littered with old newspaper and discarded plastic cups - and just listening , her bright eyes fixed on the long, crooked nose bent toward his instrument and the lengthy shadow he cast, set to trembling by the flickering light of passing subway cars.
It gave her a curious sense of ownership, and of pride, to know that she alone, out of all the people who had ever heard this music, understood the melodies that this man wove
Literature
antebirth
antebirth
I. the thump of my
blood began as a nervous twitch
flinching up one vein,
capped like a straw, and pressured
without an end, just a thimble of blood
beating on a string
II. my body hair comes next,
little buoys on a sea of skin,
struggling to build distance
III. from the embryo
Literature
Dendrophoroi
white cotton dress
and apricot
sash
bringer of fencebirds,
coaxer of beetles and
hardly more
than a child
in your
emperor
eyes;
rosen blush the
product of
Renoir's
brush
a Ptolemaic stare
to make wary
those never
destined
for portraits
on canvas
or coins
to think that
she is
serenaded
so,
that she has a
nightingale
her
own
to realise,
chastened,
you're a tree
that only
grows
in
Sicily.
Suggested Collections
Inspired by the myth about Pygmalion falling in love with his work of art.
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Comments42
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Oh my.... I don't think I've ever read something like this. When reading the first line, I was suddenly in the calm, serene, deadly quiet little place that people find ethereal and mystic. I didn't snap out of it until the last punctuation point. Absolutely breath-taking. This has got to be one of my favourite things I've ever read. Everything is just perfect about it. Your timing, the words you chose, the sentences (and the splitting!), the flow, the whole air you've created around these words. You, my dear, just created a little piece of heaven for me. God, I hope it looks like this.