Greetings, all...
I had posted this as an afterthought to my saying that I couldn't crit because of being distracted by the alleged bloomers...
but since my comments were probably not seen at the time, since I had posted them after the original post by maybe a half hour, I've deleted them and repost them here, with maybe a little additional work...
so here I am focusing on the poem again:
Quote:Draped Model (or Naked Truth)
In this museum his love does
Here draped the object of his eye resides;
Through secret visits he makes love at will[.] ( ; )
His naked model looks seeks where he does might hide
Behind that curtain viewing her so still.
It's he, the open book, (not she), stares in,
and torn, "To be exposed," he is transfixed;
With idealistic beauty 'neath her skin
Her intuition knows his feeling's mixed.
He's touched and longs to read her with his brush,
Though spatial and the temporal forbid;
The artist can do nothing more than hush
The truth, which through his art his pastels hid.
This reproduction, same as she was then
Is sketched and etched into his life again.
Inadequate though this critique may be,
my heretofore distracted eyes can see
a little better, even though they're dim;
perhaps they need a workout in a gym.
My reproduction is reduced to ink
and parchemet's crackling out the things I think.
pun-chew-waiting Lightly, Daniel 8)
P.S.
I do believe in sentences of death...
but capitally speaking, I shall save my breath.