Painting a Statue of a Woman

Imagine:
the task of applying a coat of paint
to the statue of a woman; 
it would be to apply oneself 
to each and every aspect of her beauty, 
at once frail and human,
at once ethereal and undying; 
it would be a love letter to her, 
even if the statue represented 
no soul on Earth, 
and a love letter to the world; 

and yet all they would see is, 
oh, the statue is duck-egg blue now; 
yesterday, it was white; 
they would not understand the tenderness 
in each brushstroke, 
nor how it felt to take 
each aspect of her unworldly, 
worldly beauty in hand
and show that you understood it; 
understood its posture and geometry, 
understood its relationship with light 
and the human eye; 

the whole time, you would be whispering 
I know, I know, I know, 
I know; and she quietly, not looking up at you, 
would say: I love, I love, I love, 
I love; and you would ask - how could you not? 
You are made of love 
as all works of art are acts of love, 
love letters to the world 
written in self creation and self sacrifice, 
in genuine communication,
with the intention of being overheard; 

every second you would fear 
putting your brush in the pot of duck-egg blue paint 
only to find it dry, 
yet your brush would find it ever lubricious, 
new-smelling with the just-made odour of fresh paint, 
and as you completed the painting, 
you would find yourself wishing 
the gentle agony would never end;

once finished,
you would refrain from kissing her
still-wet duck-egg blue cheek,
and gather up your paints
and painting paraphernalia
as the brightness eased from the light, 
and you would go home, 
your bicycle wheels squealing,
and you sighing in the crepuscule, 
rejoicing that you're going home, 
lamenting that the day and all the work is done.

Flower Rocket

You can listen to me reading this poem here.

A rocket went up
Into the sky today,
And from its thrusters
There came
A great unbroken stream
Of potpourri,
And inside the rocket,
Every room
And every bay
And every locker
Was full of flowers:
Red ones,
Blue ones,
Flowers whose petals
Were shaped like bottles,
Flowers whose odours
Evoked memories
Of grandmothers.
Flying the rocket
Were flower-people in uniforms
With big flower-shaped heads,
And the two lieutenant flowers
Saluted to the captain flower
And smiled,
And the captain flower
Saluted back
And smiled,
And the rocket went up and up
And around and around.
And when it reached
Its apogee,
One of the lieutenant flowers
Wrote down
Their exact distance
From the directrix:
An imaginary line
Above their heads
That went out into space
And touched the edges
Of the universe.
And the lieutenant flowers
And the captain flower
All looked at each other,
And they smiled.
And then the rocket
began to fall,
And the potpourri
That came streaming
From its thrusters
Now sprayed upwards
Like the water sprinkler
In Piccadilly Gardens.
And it continued
To fall;
It plunged,
It plummeted,
It dropped like
A plump peach.
And at twelve minutes
Past four
On Tuesday, the 23rd
Of May,
One hour
And thirty-seven minutes
After it was launched,
It entered the waters
Of the Pacific Ocean
At Point Nemo.
But now,
Instead of falling,
It was passed from palm
To palm
By the great watery hands
That lie in the ocean,
And wait
For the signal
To applaud.
The ship tumbled
And spun,
And bubbles went up
To the surface
As it sank.
Finally,
Its nose hit
The bottom
Of the Ocean
And slowly,
As though bruised,
It lowered itself
And lay down
On the Ocean bed.
All the flowers
Were dead.
The flower-people had taken
Revolvers
Out of their holsters
And blown their heads off
Ten minutes previously.
And when the metal
Of the rocket
was no longer
Too hot,
Fish would come up
And look through the windows
And mouth words
That are not
In any dictionary
And will never be
Spoken.