To enter into
the castle of her mind
— a private place adorned
with the illuminated thought
of past centuries —
was an adventure
she allowed to few.
The gate into
that world of reminiscence
— a veil ornamented
with the beauty and vacancy
of a divine smile —
was kept firmly shut
to all but the hardy.
The key to
that locked-up voice
— a brittle stained glass window
etched and impacted
by the meteors of time —
affection and love.
She always kept olives in a glass jar
In the cabinet above the pantry,
Amid the fluff and dust of decades. Tar
Paper lived elsewhere, with the iron gantry
For lifting meats, the turpentine and wax.
Everything else she threw in the dark cave
Of the understairs; all things that would tax
Her strength she threw on the floor, and this gave
The house the appearance of a swallow’s
Nest built from found goods. But always she had
Irises, quivering on a cold rad.
I have on several occasions before written of my admiration for Lucian Freud. So it was with great interest that I read Lucian’s Mountains of Flesh by Thomas Michelli at Hyperallergic, a review of the Freud exhibition Monumental.
Freud’s nudes, both male and female, are definitely not to everyone’s taste, and I strongly disagree with the political judgement laced within the review, but the article has its moments and is worth reading as one perspective on an important chapter of British art..