Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
......
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
......
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
......
I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight,
A-purpose to revisit the old claim.
I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate,
And the lads who once were with me in the game.
Poor boys, they're down-and-outers, and there's scarcely one to-day
Can show a dozen colors in his poke;
And me, I'm still prospecting, old and battered, gaunt and gray,
And I'm looking for a grub-stake, and I'm broke.
I strolled up old Bonanza. The same old moon looked down;
......
From ocean's wave a Wanderer came,
With visage tanned and dun:
His Mother, when he told his name,
Scarce knew her long-lost son;
So altered was his face and frame
By the ill course he had run.
There was hot fever in his blood,
And dark thoughts in his brain;
And oh! to turn his heart to good
......
I became friends with the darkness
The sun has become a myth
The Rain was only a comforting sound
And how I missed the snow
The walls were covered in tally marks
Counting the days
But seems time has escaped me
And the monsters in my head where only getting louder
......
Women are created in the image of God just as men are
Females are seen by Jesus as genuine persons
Not simply as the objects of male desire
Every family has disagreements, conflicts
Some men treat her with bitterness and uncontrolled anger,
They quarrel with her, abuse her,
Some Men are so rude, violent, controlling, and hatred
They do not reflect the love of Christ to her
For the anger of man does not achieve the righteousness of God
......
Lighting candles in the shade
of high priests and saints,
she prays for a peace that only exists
before she discovered her power.
She cartwheels from one man to another,
paints her eyelids with graffiti,
dreams of marigolds and picket fences,
as she is used,
her body recycled,
her rent taken from parts
......
There is some ambiguity as to the reasons why artists drew from the female nude. It is my belief that it served a dual purpose. The academic gave it a kind of respectable veneer, while underneath it was a way for artists to satisfy their private desires.
Both the visual arts and pornography have centered on the male gaze. This is what makes them serve a similar function to the one viewing it. The subject is fully unaware that someone is looking at her. She is in another place and time from the viewer.
Once was a girl who had a lovely face
With deep blue ocean eyes, shined as sapphire
And lips crimson red, as blossoming tulips
And rosy cheeks that charmed a whole Empire
The girl was known for her bewitching beauty
Petite as roses, striking like a statue
Blessed with wit and ace acuity
Little was known of, by ones attached to
......