Woodcut by Conrad Lycosthenes, 1557
in an early version
a
hermaphrodite
captured
after the siege
a
hermaphrodite
emptied
of allegory
seated
on the stump of a tree
wearing
body paint
his
soaring paper thin
shoulderblades
the
dome of her skull
his
earlobes
the angle of her nose
his fat ankles
her perfect toes
his legs collapsing under
her
multiple hues of flat
color
triangles of purple
circles squares
stripes
Teasing femme/homme
hypermasculine hyperfeminine
murderous sex cells
her long pale eyelashes
And gazes upwards smiling
An altruistic mother’s
deathless love
Deathless love saved the
babe
an impure creation
carnal/spiritual
pale and red his lips
she could feel and taste
colors
his mouth watering
Meek sweetness the face
the face
of the hermaphrodite
her platinum blonde curls
bringing millions to their
knees
In a later version
out of a lost narrative
a deaf mute
seated on the stump of a
tree
covered with tattoos
an asymmetrical form
vertical/horizontal
an impure creation
she could feel and taste
colors
A hermaphrodite
out of the center page
the edge sharp dangerous
hidden before the siege
Spasmodic the spirals of
color
astrological symbols
a kaleidoscope slowly
turning
purple orange
blue
shards of green glass
forming
letters abstract designs
His mouth watering
taste buds pulsating a flow
of hormonal forces
hypermasculine hyperfeminine
murderous sex cells
signs and wonders veins
muscles
sweat glands ligaments
intertwining darkening ruby-red
burning silver
the marrow filling the
cavities
neurological linkings
streaks of burning
gold thick thin
strokes alternating
slashes of color
seeping
He sucks evening to
morning
milk of the mother misery
milk of the father terror
She sucks morning to
evening
milk of the mother misery
milk of the father terror
tasting the color
drippings
nipples spurting nectar
An altruistic mother’s
deathless love
Deathless love saved the
babe
an impure creation
carnal/spiritual
the shape of blood poured
into a cracked cup
pale and red her lips
her arms floating above
red and pale his fingers
pulling
the spirals of her hair
blood of the hermaphrodite
Meek sweetness the face
the face
of the hermaphrodite
his platinum blond curls
2 comments:
Uoh, great blog! Link you in my blog, www.alalacenademiguel.blogspot.com.es
(what do you think of this poem?)
Source - I
She is the source. I can know she is
the great source
on which everyone thought. When in the field
the clover was sought, or in silence
the night was awaited,
or somewhere on the peace of the earth
the warping of time was heard ---
each one thought on the source. It was a
secret and peaceful flow.
A miraculous thing which happened
obscurely.
No one spoke of her, because
she was immense. But everyone knew her
as the teat. As the goatskin.
Something smiled within us.
My sisters were smoothly becoming
women. My father read.
An acceptance of the clover smiled
inside me, a very chaste finding.
It was the source.
I loved her, painfully and quietly.
The moon was forming
with a subtle hint of ferocity,
and the apple took a beginning of
splendor.
Today sex has drawn itself. The thought
has been lost and reborn.
Today I know permanently that she
is the source.
Herberto Helder
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