vendredi 20 novembre 2009

the picture of Isis


The ape of hollow glasses, aped scribe of some Egypt
ancestral of confusion between human and beast
dressed out in furs suddenly smoked with cigarettes
which he light in lung penitence,
he, the ape,
took the tools of color and line
some evening in the corruption of memory
in order to possess the shape of fair.

Virgin Queene of the Moon
suffering darkness
offered to painter kiss closed lips,
and spoke silent of some war in the sky
of angels enivrated with hate
how dangerous was the place of towers
penetrating heaven and its bloody roots.
She had the corpse of a heroe
in the palm of her delicate hand.
This corpse transformed in a rose,
and buried in a glass of transparence.
Painter could not betray his wild thought
that knew not the slow pouring of merit
and pretended to rape the image enchanted by brush.

Becoming a woman of greatness,
Virgin Queene of the Moon took the thorns of martyrdome
and set them on the beastly heart of the artist,
to make remember the existence of past knights
in her astral life,
and found in crowded luxurious beaches and disco streets,
fair Eve mother of abstract human, fair Patience secret queene of virtue,
fair Pamela at the same time,
and coffee shops in Montmartre, people of Bagdad in constant danger,
people of Sahara and emprisoned knights starving for medecines and food,
cursed by fear, as those points of those thorns.

A drop of gold made smile the portrait
and the model,
the instant of a brief sunset
and of communicating with militians muses all around
to make present the rare art of an ape,
imitation of itself under the influence of fair,
this is so Nature to the sight of the father
humble king sitting on the air.

This is for the part known by men
I tell not the drops of cry in a cursed trip on the darkness
occulted by thick lines of cloudy sky and magazines
which speak none
and of the impertinence of idiots
as a female crucifixion,
something familiar and silent and painful.

This is not known by men
fair is foul on their papers
foul is fair to their finger strokes
because they are blind now and then.

3 commentaires:

Marie a dit…

Est-ce votre compagne Eve que l'on voit sur plusieurs de vos tableaux ?
Il y a un air de ressemblance et pourtant, chaque fois ce n'est pas la même femme.
Si c'est elle, je trouve cela beau d'avoir une muse; un peu comme Toussaint qui parle de la même femme dans plusieurs de ses romans.

Manuel Montero a dit…

Oui, excusez moi, Marie, je voulais rester discret sur ma muse, mais en effet c'est presque toujours Eve, elle est la reine des possibles muses et elle est, comme je dis ailleurs (je pense que dans un livre) mon principe de réalité.

Marie a dit…

Cela restera "entre nous"; permettez moi juste de dire que la muse est belle, tout "principe de réalité" qu'elle soit par ailleurs. Moi aussi j'ai mon "principe de réalité" sans lequel ce serait souvent la noyade en eaux troubles. Amicalement^^