Something like a little smile

He saw a naked woman (1980)

He saw a naked woman 
for the first time in his life, 
and told his parents 
that millstones crossed over his chest 
and fell there, jaundiced. … His mother 
stood by the window in such a way, 
bread and a cutting-knife in her hands, 
that the light sucked her in 
up to the very end 
up to the longish clusters of fingers and toes. 
Only later, on the surface of night 
a slice of bread bobbed up and down … 
and then a solitary man said 
— how easy it is to speak the truth!
If they would throw stones into the pupils of our eyes 
as into a well, 
if the waters would gather above our heads, 
the millstone’s weight still will fill our chests 
and the light, insatiable, unbroken 
sucking in our bodily forms 
up to the tips of our fingernails … 
Then, on the surface of time 
perhaps a word will bob up and down —
the only one 
you should expect 
from a millstone-crossed chest …
III. There must be something (1984)
There must be something for the sake of which 
you would offer up yourself —
either the silk of banners 
or words which glide like silk …
although the city harangues you day and night —
your familiar enemy —
you are fortunate (they say)
because you have organized your existence. 
You lack neither a name 
nor life’s little pleasures; 
but, when you think about this question —
who knows? for it is in the picture-richness of words 
that you are bound, as though by chains … 
So, you sincerely wish to be a butterfly 
more than any other living thing 
because it neither eats nor drinks 
nor takes thought for any other shameful necessity, 
nor does it take account 
of whom it is stronger or weaker than —
that it accordingly might tremble or flatter —
it flutters about for its own sake, and dies 
in its world of flowers .. .
The mental equipment in its velvety body 
was not installed by God 
and so it does not know that winter 
plasters over the world of flowers with lime 
as unbelievers cover over the frescoes in a church,
and compels the proud, powerful wolf 
to run to and fro like a starving beggar, 
while letting the craven rabbit 
roll in the drooping lap of luxury 
and learn the potential of its warren …
Winter is harsh, one-sided —
both falsetto bud and baritone volcano 
terminate on its starched white-bordered chest … 
And isn’t it better than such running around 
or shivering in one’s warren:
the butterfly’s transitory world, brief as a flutter —
one moment multicolored, the next moment twilight-colored —
where it is possible to offer up yourself 
for banner or man 
or soil or book.

This month I am going to use the georians as my muse posting pictures, paintings, prose poems etc of that era to hopefully inspire a final piece 

 =)