study in bronze and flesh

The actual origin of this cycle is a discussion of inspiration. Cody Gibson, who is one of the photographers working with me on the site updates sent me this picture of herself from her portfolio and asked what I thought of it, I told her I would respond in poetry. So, I did. The phrase "Christmas reborn" comes from her, she said that waiting overnight to read the poems in the morning would make it like "Christmas reborn".

study in bronze and flesh

I.

eyes downcast in modesty or misdirection
leaving her soul covered against eyes
looking for an opening to chase behind the wall
that tantalizes and mesmerizes and rises
like steam from flesh afire with light and life.

II.

growing bolder with a shrug of a shoulder
laid bare in the asymmetry of life,
lovely and electric, like the skin she is in,
waiting for moment to drop her guard
and play her card to the table, to enable
her to claim all her desires.

III.

remarkable form, warm even to the touch of eyes,
no lies discernible, there is truth in her shadow
as she swallows it to allow you only what is there,
fair and wary, like a sweet contender for immortality
on her own terms, already the victor.

IIII.

did you think I can’t see through the clutching touch
of fabric that stretches and fetches imagination
for a controlling consolation as you provoke the whim
spindled on soft curves that reward the light
with the right view of new awareness of your fairness.
and the injustice of it all to those who would reach out
with bold bluster and all the couer rage they could muster
to lay suit for a gentle soul wrapped in temptation.

V.

you make me think of Christmas reborn.
a fall of snow and the desire to know
what is beneath the trappings and wrappings
with the eagerness of a child, fingers itching
even as I sleep, deep desire for the morning
to come to see if my wishes will come true in you.

VI.

I have seen flowers in the garden that would weep with despair
if you were but there
as you mock their beauty with your own
lights that have shown since creation
find aggravation
when poets compare them to your rare radiance.

VII.

speak to me with the veils asunder, the thunder plundering
silence
in the violence of truth being spoken with heated lips
and sweetened hips and a thought not less than feral
but born and borne from an awareness
that there is beauty in bronze and flesh
and a mind not unkind to the notions of intellect
and the ability to grow into something more than imagined.


William F. DeVault. All rights reserved.