x Holy Family 1913
This fleshly dialectic fuses in their fingers,
A triad, each in isolation,
The latter, Christ, the son,
Would have his messianic
Peering from an orange mist, umbilicus,
Mother is of the same geometry, a well
Of orange light,
Real grace in the shadowed eyes,
The sleepy features.
Is carnal, worldly, spreading his substance
Wife-ward through sharp fingers,
Cold juice that she returns
In an ascending hand
Up to his pointed face.
Of a sort is in their sloe-eye stares,
All past each other,
Infant like a nascent Buddha, radiating locus,
Is the world that’s coming,
Wrought of a suspect
Thesis begetting wife and wife a son,
From Adam’s rib a Fall.
How will this
Young lad share his semen? A virgin’s lust must
ii Crouching Female Nude with Blue Stockings 1912
The flesh seems shaken, suspended,
A gust, a gust of wind,
From the black
To stockings blue-to-shock beneath the knees,
Where one plump fecund
Borders like a ghost of blond,
Too visible, a wraith,
Seeping into the blue, and up into the flesh-form,
Buttocks touched by yellow,
Tint of the carnal
As this figure
Floats from the tense of legs, upward,
Ripple of undulations,
One pale vulnerable breast with its sharp line
Feeling at the tinted wash
That frames her.
And yet, it is the hair
That has us,
That shake of rich brown, tousle,
As if the whole diaphanous body ends outward
In feathery thread-ends,
In the airy form erupting through black,
Blue, yellow (here the tint following the back)
To a brown fuzz
Of queenly hair and armpit,
And that’s it.
v Kneeling Semi-nude in Yellow Stockings 1917
Egon would have us focus at a nipple,
For here a lady’s calm intent
Raises her breast
That miracle of flesh, the yellow tip,
Expressive hands tensed at her investigation,
The slim slash of brow is a harlequin’s,
The nose precise and lovely.
She purses lips
To watch herself, that swell, that surge, that chant,
By womanhood secure in a welt of time,
A lapse, a celebration.
She cannot serve
Our rapt frustration, willful gaze to mamma
To the narrow torso, sucked in belly,
The bulk of her undergarment reaching
To the yellow stockings.
Crowns our torment.
One hears it in the painting, in the tones of flesh
And chill decision.
She is lean, abstracted, lush.