A sestina about an art book-each stanza is a painting. I'm in love with this poem. |
Book of Art Sweet, thick, peach necks covered in pearls strung together by heavenly voices, "Oh Golden Gate we beseech You to cultivate our wealth." Pouring yellow fire into the pupils of cherubim fat in essence, sickly, demonlike, don't speak, but wrapping up enemies in true green envy. Next picture: a picnic scene to envy. Plates set on bright red tableclothes, plates pearly white with soap. The little boy speaks to father, "Throw the baseball past far left gate." Cookie crumbs and bread crusts to make fat ants, the explosive sun crisps and tones down its fire. Coarsely rubbed purple velvet spewing oil fire. A party has erupted in "Andromeda's Envy," Roman vigils of wine and fat pigs roasted for Athena, Andromeda's wedding pearls still in her hair-still shining with the fearful sweat of escaping Neptunes gate. Perseus's rescue honoring Mercury to speak. A scene in which music clangs in speech tambourines and animal skin drums orange like fire instruments of bone opening a gate to the Higher Being. In spite of envy the chieftan's daughter wears daisies precious as pearl, and, starving, the common people stare jealously at her ripe fat flesh. A basket of fruit glistening. Fat red apples and grapes-wishing to be wine if only they could speak. A single blueberry like a pearl among stones. The flesh of oranges spicy like fire. The banana envies their roundness-their perfect shape-the wicker basket a gate-reinging them in. Modern art's a mystery-a single gate post-big monochromatic squares fat from their experience with only one color, envious of art that has meaning-that speaks. Yet modern art, too, holds its fire. Though a good rendition in as rare as an oyster pearl. The pearly gates of artistry wood added to the fire of wisdom, fat indeed, speaks through the paint-"Envy me." |