Thursday, March 11
she who once was the beautiful heaulmière
' The dwindled dust
And rot and rust
Of things that were. '- T.Hardy
Flung heady remains these clinging illusions of glory,
(gone, perhaps, or betrayed)
they become ghosts which serve to preserve one's vanity;
gossamer nothings, nothing but their vulnerable mask has stayed
in memory's passion -
a beauteous sensation that swollen heart
with virtuous blood of virtue long spent,
long ground to thin dust
long fallen and corrupt,
grit lining relics of unsung selves;
selves shelved in wait for magical moments,
in wait for intimations of such joy’s justice.
These ghosts are pale,
they play upon one's face
and present themselves as clichés.
Aging women lose themselves
in this phantasmagoric
labyrinth of pleasance
which has perhaps twisted them
into contemned gargoyles
So pleasant the dream,
so fearsome-seeming the mask,
the Gothic grotesque!
(Gnarled olive or cypress
impresses my eye no less).
Yes one can cringe into a crone
at the very thought of beauties long gone.