I wish I had the skill to draw your face,
Make quick work of epitomes as though
Da Vinci, Dürer and Tiepolo
Had taken turns at talent in my place.
I’d craft mandalas of your brows and eyes,
With meditations on the subtle dip
That circumnavigates your lower lip.
From every pad of paper, you’d arise.
Yet shouldn’t I disdain a tyranny
That ties the terms of grace to my command?
I wouldn’t even need you here at hand
To conjure beauties that are dear to me.
Is it not best to wait to find it there:
Your face engraved upon the vellumed air?
| Copyright © 2023 by Eric Meub Eric Meub is a California poet & architect. |
Diaphanous! Phantasmagorical!
ReplyDeleteIn the days following my earlier comment, I've rued its piffling blather. I'd rather have tried to indicate something like:
DeleteI get it: the speaker comes around to thinking (after wishing he had great artistic skill) that it's better not to have that skill, so that maybe the beloved might be there in person, present – in the vellumed air in front of the speaker – more often.
Thank you, so much, Eric, for not just writing poems like this for your own joy of creation, but also sharing them with others here at Moristotle & Co.!