Thursday, March 4, 2010

L'Origine du Monde, 1866

From dusted shaft, Courbet emerges,
fingers pearl and slick.
Around his head, a crown of flesh:
spectral-memory of his start,
his first bloody breath.
Hand raised to paint him back
through opening thicket, tangled black.

5 comments:

gerry boyd said...

Yummy music in the last two lines.

Megan Duffy said...

Gerry, this poem, and the one below it, began last year, after 5 years away from writing. Revised them both. Curious to see how they'll look a year from now.

Anonymous said...

this poem is just suberb!and the pic above it so lovely!
thanks for ur beautiful comment on my blog...

human being said...

a beautiful picture that draws you in...


.

a child
a world
a star
a chain of words
born
to my
heart
a secret place to hide...

.

Peter Greene said...

I think I must be becoming a fan. Your poems build images quickly and easily in my mind - there are relational things behind your words that connect, across vast complex spaces of thought and culture. A good poet is like an island: small, unique, atop vast amounts of rock you cannot see. This stuff works, and for real. I am pleased to strive alongside and am instructed greatly by your work; you are helping me lose some of my poet's arrogance, too, by being so awfully good at what we do. Thanks (as always) for sharing your work online - it's a big service.
PG