Saturday, February 3, 2007

in the tepidarium

splendor defined
the female form
waiting for her roman bath
and the portrait painter
in the decadent central hall.
her sweat licked
curves, played nude
against the palest of flesh tones
while peacock feathers kissed
the nooks and niches
of her shadow-flicked virtues
glowing moist.

already bored, the woman reclines
on a ruby-satin trundle
draped with the hides of three white leopards,
languishing against emerald-velvet pillows
piled high and soft against her skin.
framed by flickering candlelight
from hundreds of the finest candles,
she watches the artist prepare his pigments,
align the brushes
and the blank canvas
yet to be painted.

he studies his subject for a moment
taking in her long hair, spilled deep auburn curls
sauntering over thin shoulders
caressing along the length of her spine,
ending at the crest of her aristocratic ass.
but it is her eyes that weakens his knees
and his confidence
for they are the blue of the roman sky in springtime.

finally, the painter sets to work
swirling and blending his pallet
not yet content
this version of blue
matches precisely those stunning eyes.
he leanes in for a closer look
and stumbles bumbling into the candlesticks.
hundreds of the finest candles
finding their fiery way to the ruby satin-trundle
and the pillows, then the model in mid-yawn,
while nero plays on...

© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar

2 comments:

Drake Lightle (aka Deleted User; Charles Bukkake) said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Drake Lightle (aka Deleted User; Charles Bukkake) said...

One of my all time favorites of yours, Deb...though, honestly, you are one of my top 10 all time favorite poets. It helps that I think of you as part of a modern poetry movement of which I am a part, but I think even without that personal connection, some of your poems would still put you in that category.

This poem is beautiful neo-classicism. It will always take me to a place in my heart where my being burned like those candles. I wonder were the artist not so clumsy, how he might have colored that blank canvas.

Damn Nero and his fiddle...I cry for Rome...and the bored naked red-head in the bath house.