The Alchemist: Emerson Matabele
Beauty exquisite, painful and unseen
until the photographer captures
her. In her wisdom she does not turn
her face to the camera, smile—
her beauty isn’t streamlined, metal flake red,
not floral abundance
nor sunset, so obvious.
Beauty stares out of her mud-framed face,
rests in the angle of her arm as she white washes the wall
of her house, her care, her work.
As if being human
were no less than being wasp, being bee--
the symmetry of honeycomb, the angle of brick--
Earth itself making shelter.
posted by Anonymous at 9:50 PM
2 Comments:
This last stanza is exquisite:
Beauty stares out of her mud-framed face,
rests in the angle of her arm as she white washes the wall
of her house, her care, her work.
As if being human
were no less than being wasp, being bee--
the symmetry of honeycomb, the angle of brick--
Earth itself making shelter.
It is as transcendental as it is meditation--Edward Taylor would appreciate it as much as Emerson as much as Thich Nhat Hanh.
Very "Graceful" Mary!
Though I be damned, I will say that Mary has an Emily-eye, spotting the natural (daresay beautifully mundane word pic)event.
"As if being human
were no less than being wasp, being bee--
the symmetry of honeycomb, the angle of brick--
Earth itself making shelter."
Oscar approves from hell.
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