Well, there's millions to choose from on a hi-res PC screen.
To a Woman at her Mirror
Say Titian with his powders, pestel, oils,
had honed his palette down and limited
his choices to the plays of antlered flame
on burnished amulets and copperware?
Or Newton with his prism and silent face
had forsworn prima vera, summer skies,
the sapphire's mineral gaze, and had confined
his rainbow to the glints that evening sun
wakens from snow-capped peaks, that candlelight
spills on the contours of a violin?
Or, ask what might their canvasses have been
if Turner and Van Gogh had chanced to seeNew England beech and maple in the Fall?
A subtler jar of sunflowers perhaps?
Bolder brushstrokes where sea and sunset meet?
Well may theses daubers and dabblers spare
no effort, but their efforts don't compare
to the gold cascade when she combs out her hair.
A veritable masterpiece of your own, Doctor. She's a looker then?
ReplyDeleteBeautiful! A marvelous poem for this week's prompt.
ReplyDeleteWas frustrated when I tried to find you via the link from your comments at my blog. It took me to a page of yours, but one that stopped there...no access to your blog. What's that about? (If it were a color I think it would be magenta.) :)
As toddlers, both my grandaughters would have mirrored this cascade of red-gold treasure from their baby locks. Your words captured it to perfection.
ReplyDeleteI have to say your poem is one of my favorites. It's awesome. Thanks for riding the Poetry Bus with me. Blessings!
ReplyDeleteYou must like her a lot!
ReplyDeleteThanks to all commenters. It's interesting that 2 people think she is a "real" person. That's putting the cart before the horse. I wondered would it be possible to write a poem about "colour" without using the word "colour" or any of its synonyms, and without stating directly what colour I was writing about. I thought that perhaps the "autumn shades" were the easiest to find examples of . . and then there's a song that includes the line "When you knew that it was over, you were suddenly aware/that the autumn leaves were turning to the colour of her hair."
ReplyDeleteFramework of poem complete! The woman at her mirror is no more real than I am.
I always had a feeling that you weren't real..just a figment of my imagination.This poem I suppose does not really exist either.
ReplyDeleteMaybe I wrote it.If so, I still like it anyway!
Excellent DR FTSE, perhaps your best? So far!
ReplyDeleteOh, you are real all right and you reveal more than you know maybe! Words from a sensitive soul, yours.
ReplyDelete