The O in You
Apollinaire, how you rolled the O in Rome,
the O in Oran, the O in Eldorado.
So perfect the vowel, so pure the sound.
How disconnected the fog
of your nobleman father -
how the word disowned
became a constant groan.
Your disappearing mother,
the symbol of the Goddess in her three phases;
your perfect moon -
waxing, full and waning...
maidens you owned; this one, that one,
the other, but how ominous the sound: crone.
I think you loved the Mona Lisa -
you were not so modern.
When you met Picasso in Paris
what colour did he paint your lips?
The rose colour of the Louvre?
They say you lived a glorious war;
the surreal of the trenches,
body-parts painted on the landscape
But then you always lived art,
Orpheus and the O in erotica.
Somewhere in the shroud of clouds
a hand waves a tambourine
an eye beats to the symbol of a drum
and the smoke rings of your poetry,
float.
© 2010 CJ
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