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| "Brown Face" © 2016 David Prashker |
She was a child among children
a true daughter of Jerusalem
Lupus once said of her that
when she grew older
she would look like she belonged in a painting
by the Douanier Rousseau
or an early sketch for a Raphael ‘Madonna’
For myself I always saw her
in one of those Egyptian friezes
holding an urn high up on her shoulders
kneeling in the shadow of that
throne of burnished gold;
or in some Chinese tapestry or water-colour
seated on a wooden stool
or in the shade of an araucaria
trailing her cape
over the banister
of a jewelled staircase
Sometimes
by candlelight
or the bank of a river
or standing on the sand at sunset
a true daughter of Jerusalem
Lupus once said of her that
when she grew older
she would look like she belonged in a painting
by the Douanier Rousseau
or an early sketch for a Raphael ‘Madonna’
For myself I always saw her
in one of those Egyptian friezes
holding an urn high up on her shoulders
kneeling in the shadow of that
throne of burnished gold;
or in some Chinese tapestry or water-colour
seated on a wooden stool
or in the shade of an araucaria
trailing her cape
over the banister
of a jewelled staircase
Sometimes
by candlelight
or the bank of a river
or standing on the sand at sunset
I was aware of an almost charismatic glow
about her eyes
as though the flame of sex
had only then been kindled in her
the virgin flame
that has not yet been doused
or nourished
by the hot wax of experience -
and at such moments
the desire to take her
to initiate her
to consume
and be consumed
was positively overwhelming
Yet there we stood
motionless as icons
I leaning back against some wall or rock
discoursing about Chagall or Giacometti
she picking out the kernels of the sunflower seeds
and spitting out the husks upon the sand
listening not to what I said
but only to the music of my voice
its harmonies and counterpoints
its cadences
its beats and rhythms and staccatos -
as though she were learning
the score of some concerto
From the distance
an onlooker could have discerned nothing
deciphered nothing
our faces disclosed nothing
no emotion that could be named
or commented upon -
only the impression of two statues
set absurdly in a wilderness
trying to illuminate some oblique intent
Yet beneath this
in the mood we had created around ourselves
the most elusive of emotions
were struggling to take shape
emerging from whatever hidden or unknown source
accumulating tier by tier
like some impenetrable tel
(Yes
but how to convey all this
in paint
in parable
in poetry?)
She had
at such moments
a peculiar way of looking at me
not unlike the way
she looked at herself in mirrors -
that slightly glazed look
of someone seeing something
that she cannot quite accept
yet knows for certain to be true...
Aye, but how far she had travelled
before she stumbled on me -
and not merely physically
about her eyes
as though the flame of sex
had only then been kindled in her
the virgin flame
that has not yet been doused
or nourished
by the hot wax of experience -
and at such moments
the desire to take her
to initiate her
to consume
and be consumed
was positively overwhelming
Yet there we stood
motionless as icons
I leaning back against some wall or rock
discoursing about Chagall or Giacometti
she picking out the kernels of the sunflower seeds
and spitting out the husks upon the sand
listening not to what I said
but only to the music of my voice
its harmonies and counterpoints
its cadences
its beats and rhythms and staccatos -
as though she were learning
the score of some concerto
From the distance
an onlooker could have discerned nothing
deciphered nothing
our faces disclosed nothing
no emotion that could be named
or commented upon -
only the impression of two statues
set absurdly in a wilderness
trying to illuminate some oblique intent
Yet beneath this
in the mood we had created around ourselves
the most elusive of emotions
were struggling to take shape
emerging from whatever hidden or unknown source
accumulating tier by tier
like some impenetrable tel
(Yes
but how to convey all this
in paint
in parable
in poetry?)
She had
at such moments
a peculiar way of looking at me
not unlike the way
she looked at herself in mirrors -
that slightly glazed look
of someone seeing something
that she cannot quite accept
yet knows for certain to be true...
Aye, but how far she had travelled
before she stumbled on me -
and not merely physically
Across the wilderness our generation had disclosed
(where the sun beats
and the dead tree gives no shelter)
past the cold and empty caves
that swallow up the desert
over the steppes, Lupus
the winding staircase of the tundra
Named and nameless
known and unknown
watched and stareless
seen and blinding
Across the paths of her own strangerhood
Ayishah!
You can find David Prashker at:
http://theargamanpress.com/
http://davidprashker.com/
http://davidprashker.net/
https://www.facebook.com/TheArgamanPress
http://davidprashkersprivatecollection.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkerssongsandpoems.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersartgallery.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersworldhourglass.blogspot.co.uk/
http://davidprashkersbookofdays.blogspot.co.uk/
http://thebiblenet.blogspot.co.uk/
(where the sun beats
and the dead tree gives no shelter)
past the cold and empty caves
that swallow up the desert
over the steppes, Lupus
the winding staircase of the tundra
Named and nameless
known and unknown
watched and stareless
seen and blinding
Across the paths of her own strangerhood
Ayishah!
You can find David Prashker at:
http://theargamanpress.com/
http://davidprashker.com/
http://davidprashker.net/
https://www.facebook.com/TheArgamanPress
http://davidprashkersprivatecollection.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkerssongsandpoems.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersartgallery.blogspot.com
http://davidprashkersworldhourglass.blogspot.co.uk/
http://davidprashkersbookofdays.blogspot.co.uk/
http://thebiblenet.blogspot.co.uk/
Copyright © 2016 David Prashker
All rights reserved
The Argaman Press
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