La
Belle Noiseuse
(1991)
I
It is part of our youth
to want
to believe the naked has
not changed
like truth. Lines
scratch
on the paper swollen
with Indian ink.
The
man
of genius lines
tormented in his
forehead lines
won’t translate – it’s
not
so bad
we dream of blood
on the canvas
when all there is
is light
II
Soon he’s laying
hands on her, it’s the
only
way he can control her
dreaming of the past
when he was alive
III
Every pose is good
forceful
it cannot be held
for long enough
the naked woman
the artist
trapped in his fantasy
look at each other less
and less
IV
Dreams, and lies
and truth
bandied around
like they mean something
in the way
he pushes and prods her
leads her, like a
pliable doll
we claim we want
no possessions, just to
be
the
ebb and flow
of celestial energy
we claim we want
nothing
the body crumbling
a bad translation
grieving, continuing the
rhyme
lamentation, affectation
resuscitation
we claim
we want
V
The terrible and lovely
light
the death before the
fact of life
is over
what held in
these invisible frames
flames and moves outward
–
rage, the fact of life
the grieving and lonely
wife
spins around
no point to this at
least
until these machinations
cease
VI
The four-paned window
makes a cross
on his back
because of the light
all that we lack
is a mask
resuscitate him briefly
–
he’ll paint you one.
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