10th March, 2012
All things, all the cubes and dashes,
The lizard on the dark door, Dali’s geometry,
The passion, the dejection, the salvation,
All, all is gone by now
Beyond the sound of the steed
Trotting behind a maroon mare
When she chases her own shadow
Down the valley of bricks and rods
(Modern art, they call ’em, huh)!
When they vanish in the haze,
Behind the vision’s single maze,
Come, come then Lutetia’s mason—
The Master of the rough hands that had
The flesh of art and the blood of mathematics in their veins—
The hands that chiseled the raw-land
And brought Paris out from a fine heap of white stones.
Come now in the guise of a swan or a falcon if you can,
And make me chaste again by making love with me, violently
(For my woman is sleeping for centuries now
And is cold like Xanadu’s caverns)!
I’m Leda, from la ville-lumière.
See beneath my rouge and lipstick,
And my latex lingerie.
Wounded I am by the fountain pens
And dumb stares and vulgar praises.
Give me a child.
Give me a child of God again!
And when he dies
I want no prints in Alyscamps
By his twin.
I want him to die a human, noble but uncelebrated!
Or is your marrow too is sucked by the time
In the table with thirteen chairs
Turned into a Vinci’s riddle?
Imprison me again in the past and let me dream
Beyond the bars and die a goddess in the lap of a human,
A human with no heart yet loving all the more.