A Woman Without Arms
A woman without arms
is still a woman, nonetheless,
given a torso, two good legs, a head.
Without a mirror
she falls in love with herself.
Think: Venus.
Think: Winged Victory.
Think of wings that have been interlocked
so long, folded like an apron, unfolding
now as intricate as a moth's.
She has abandoned rings,
fingers, files, polish, gloves, bracelets,
for these feathers. Yet
she hungers for touch, for the
astonishing grace of nakedness, the endless warmth
of flesh, the chill of water.
She has forgotten how to hold a pencil,
how to play the Tarot. The harp
sits silent in the corner, gathering dust.
How does she eat? Make bread? Who
will feed the mare? Who
will water the fading plants, and gather
sticks for the fire, and turn the pages
of photographs, those foursided pastimes?
And where are other angels,
so long unseen?
(Painting, Rick Mobbs, at mine enemy grows older)
.
7 comments:
Oh, wow, this is astonishing, I absolutely love where the painting led you........wonderful.
I say oh, wow, too. This is so interesting, so very complex and interesting and beautiful. It fits you, too, from what I know of your great blog I am still exploring. I'll post a link over at my place. Let's do it again!
Ahh the woman, all the things she does with her hands, where would life be without her. Loved the photo and your poem P! :)
I LOVE this poem. You take a child's view of the painting, and expand on it in widenening circles. Delightful.
It reminds me of The Little Prince, when he was appalled that the adults couldn't see that his drawing was of a snake that had swallowed an elephant.
Ricks painting is thrilling too, of course. We are gobbling them up, aren't we?
this is beautiful, pepek, you brought the painting alive..
Just beautiful!
Excellent take on the image! Enjoyed the read, for certain!
Post a Comment