Let the poem be the portrait, clothed
and inaccurate, of the nude form
reclined upon fantasized hours of silk
and velvet folds, and thus, blindly
depicted on fire by the cold of glances
that never truly – and in the flesh - kiss.

Let it rustle, chiseled and copious
like Alençon lace, of all the moans
invented, and of skin, of soul, soft
and powdered – and let it stick, up
there, where the breast is “estrambote”
of what is not and cannot be a sonnet, a
birth mark in finicky “rondeau” to a false
”motif”, cut in taffeta.

Let it open, in fainting fingertips, in
quivering lips, passions between incense
and nard with a musky after-scent, and
let it return from paleness in roses
sighing, drafted to the ear – or to
the deafness of the thighs, in tones
of minuet for clavichord.

Yes, let the poem be all that which
the muse, elusive and uncovered, really
is not, and from her hair untied in wind
that is just wind, let it warp webs
with names of goddesses – so that, from
copulation with such divine breaths
may be woven, creator and creature,
immortal.

Let the poem not be the portrait, nude
and accurate, of the essence whose veils
have, in time, become prose, shredded
and cast at the feet chaffed by the roughness
of its own path – and let it not walk, least
of all run, but let it drift in flights and in
aerial circles of infinite, till of itself it is
exhausted, and, more and more tenuous,
dissipates.

Let the poem be, then, not even the idea
of a poem – nor ingenuity, nor art, and
from the vein, let it not stream anything
but blood, simply fresh and scarlet.

Let the verse, undone, be done in reverse
- and, of the poets, let it not recite, but
purely say, in a tongue that other tongue,
by taste, will understand, that word:
Love.

Let it be made, then, with no garments
- or elaborate strophes – in between.
And let that… yes, be the portrait
natural and warm, of those who do not
merely write it, because, here and now
and always, they live it, “dammit”, in
the flesh and true – Poetry!

© 2007 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®