"...'Tis the tempestuous loveliness of terror..."
-Percy Bysshe Shelley
It starts at the eyes,
not that anyone asks.
Too often the limbs
break before everything
is done––I have too
many fallen arms
littering my home, shields
as platters, swords enough
to shutter the windows,
fence the yard.
Pity from the sirens
whose art needs only
a sweet song and
sharp stones, one-time
shows lauded for
sincerity and scale.
For me, a fine line
between victim and
sculpture. A man
will always guard
his face. I paved
the path last summer
with so many stone hands.
3 comments:
I started a series from the point of view of Pandora more than two years ago called "Like the Clay" (It starts here, if you're interested: http://poemsaboutnothinginparticular.blogspot.com/2009/05/like-clay.html).
It incorporates a lot of the same elements you're seeing here––the casual voice, the behind-the-scenes moments––in an effort to humanize her, and tell a different story. I ended up writing a series of seven poems for it.
I figured it was about time to peek into someone else's myth.
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