Monday, April 2, 2012

In Search of Beatrice of the Topa Topas

Her secrets spilled out like spools of colored threads from a tipped basket
Never one to keep anything to herself
She shed ideas much as you would a coat in the summer dropping
Not just the political fashion but the very skin of her own culture

Beatrice took to the stage like a snail to leaves
Devouring her roles until the good little girl she was 
Had been painted over and over in a shellac of pentimento she was then
Ready for her Babylonian close up 

Falling in with the painters of Paris descending the staircase nude
Choosing the paintbrush that laughs she dipped into the pigment jars her
Silly mimicry came out as essence of joy and bohemian love
Life's very secrets pulled from the Mad Hatter's head wear 

Fame became Beato much as the perfume of her art
spread wafted floated like party invitations from Soho
It was because she wanted a certain something and finding none
Made her own

You see that right there is her secret
She did not capitulate or settle or give in
Ever, but painted her own path and walked down that
She declared herself 32 forever and a thief of husbands

Beatrice took herself to the first and last freedom the paper of her
Absorbing ink that writes there is no distance between 
observer and observed
Molding clay and words to form the last quarter of her century
Soul married to the mountain the only solid piece of life she could not move

1 comment:

  1. This is so layered, so gorgeous . A story, a tale ... and your imagery is sublime. Love, love reading your work ...