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Durer Paints In His Cold Eden
but he's not a sensualist, & nature beckons
in grim foreboding to his senses
stranding them along the grain of desire
where clerics wait to gossip with vultures
picking his fleshed sin from a bony gauntlet
he sees the melancholy horizon draped over
the cold landscape of his first vision
meld into wildernesses of spirit
still burning like an artist's candle
waxing him into some melted heaven
Ancient Rites
The night she wove her fingers
into the pall of my pubic hair
I felt the urge (like a pagan just born)
to recreate the image of new love in an art
unknown to man.
The way her breasts might wither
from another place so barren,
I'd weld a sudden golden aura
to her Greek truncated torso
for love, when spoiled, is in fact
a kind of lie against nature
trying to prevent our hidden strengths
from growing,
though we know in time
art's vandals will come
to amputate them.
Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, and has poetry in THE SMOKING POET, A HUDSON VIEW POETRY DIGEST, ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE, HEELTAP and elsewhere... His new novel is The Burgher of Virtual Eden from Publish America (www.publishamerica.com). He was Pushcart nominated for poetry in 2008. (September 09)