Restons dans les années 50 pour mieux apprécier les peintures de Joe Bowler d'époques et leurs jeunes femmes blondes (pour la plupart), bien coiffées, décemment vêtues, amoureuses, enjouées et surtout très sages. Ca change un peu de nos pin-up aguicheuses, non Rijk?
you are my bread
and the hairline noise
of my bones
you are almost
the sea
you are not stone
or molten sound
I think
you have no hands
this kind of bird flies backwards
and this love
breaks on a windowpane
where no light talks
this is not the time
for crossing tongues
(the sand here
never shifts)
I think
tomorrow
turned you with his toe
and you will
shine
and shine
unspent and underground
I loved you in October
when you hid behind your hair
and rode your shadow
in the corners of the house
and in November you invaded
filling the air
above my bed with dreams
cries for some kind of help
on my inner ear
in December I held your hands
one afternoon; the light failed
it came back on
in a dawn on the Scottish coast
you singing us ashore
now it is January, you are fading
into your double
jewels on his cape, your shadow on the snow,
you slide away on wind, the crystal air
carries your new songs in snatches thru the windows
of our sad, high, pretty rooms
First Snow, Kerhonkson - for Alan
This, then, is the gift the world has given me
(you have given me)
softly the snow
cupped in the hollows
lying on the surface of the pond
matching my long white candles
which stand at the window
which will burn at dusk while the snow
fills up our valley
this hollow
no friend will wander down
no one arriving brown from Mexico
from the sunfields of California, bearing pot
they are scattered now, dead or silent
or blasted to madness
by the howling brightness of our once common vision
and this gift of yours-
white silence filling the contours of my life.
My Lover's Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun