Renaissance

Her ten bare toes

nudge the thick purple moss,

afflict the crimson grass.

 

As before a Milanese diva,

the blushing summer sun

flings its bouquet of fire-lilies

in rapturous abjection.

 

Shopworn jargonings

of trade, of opinion

fall mute as surpliced acolytes

in a Mass of Tridentine rubric.

 

Watching her shape

havoc the atmosphere,

who would not celebrate?

Whose nerves would not ache with grace?

Whose blood would not dance,

manic hooligan

amid nineteenth-century artifacts?

 

How paltry now seems

the harvest of August,

how trifling the treasures

of our affluent moment!





Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2019-07-10 at 12:36

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Ngoc Nguyen The PoetBay support member heart!
A subtle and well-dictioned poem (of the protagonist's encounter with lust), indeed! Kudos (to you), Thomas!

~Ngoc
2019-07-11


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Delightful!
2019-07-10


Yayāti
You've painted an unusually beautiful portrait. I agree with Josephus's comment as well.
2019-07-10


josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
A rhapsodic encounter with just a tinge of healthy lust. Nice captured, my friend!
2019-07-10