the first line (from the zine Explaining Women)
when the first caveman
eyed the first cavewoman
and felt the animal inside
welling up through knotted gut
dispersing his modicum
of abstract thought
then taking a charcoal from the fire
he began to draw, to nullify
the madness in his head
exaggerating those parts
that obsessed him most
breasts, rump and thigh
but the shaman’s graphic plan
for all it’s magic artistry
to possess what he didn’t posses
illustrated his hands’ emptiness
his need for a cunning plan
the need to render her helpless
to succumb to his caveman charm
with club in hand and honey for bait
a prehistoric ars amatoria
delivered his desire to his lair
where his fevered hands explored
rounds, clefts and orifices
an anatomical lesson for tyro artists
to draw what is perceived with touch
dressed in nothing but her skin
she’s a parchment for his graphic hand
to wander with a line across her naked downs
spread her out like a trophy mat
deep in the cave of his imagination
where his totem is enlarged and proud
he decorated the walls with her nakedness
objectified and made concrete
the transient experience of her form
mapped out in radials of a compass
a star chart of metaphysical connections
the geometry of her horoscope
he assesses with his accusatory eye
how his earth spins on her axis
she was an equation to be solved
a complex of tangents mapped in time and space
the dumbstruck caveman gawped in awe
as she arced across his sky
heavy and swollen with pendulous breasts
parturient belly and prominent pubis
from which cavebabies crawled
whether this is fact or fiction
my imagination or just fictional fact
cultures tumble through the ages
draughtsmen with unique hand
link a knotted line of voluptuous forms
obsessed with their own ideal
on which they hung their insanity
I remember Degas at the National
sixty pastels of pubescent dancers
each one, both innocent and delinquent
ganged up in collective accusation
that his coordinated hand and eye
produced a mirror into his darkened soul
a predator of teenage girls
but who am I in my age of regret
of chances missed and unrequited love
when a gaggle of chattering schoolgirls
sung-song echoed down the street
across the park to beyond the welfare fence
where a host of schoolboy myths were spawned
and legends were cultivated and bloomed
aglow and with a nervous hand
like Degas I drew their brilliant star
in delicate line and veils of shade
bikini briefs beneath blue gym knickers
worn as was the fashion then
slipped over fleshy youthful thighs
to reveal the taboo nest
‘see how deep your finger goes’
she urged, as if sharing knowledge
so knuckle deep in a scrub of dampened hair
a suppressed thrill passed between
something metaphysical, an understanding
our nerve ends igniting like tiny suns
our eyes, colliding planets
it was before I had met Egon Schiele
my sketches were ignorant of his hand
and how he framed himself in an image
perched above and looking down
his subject spread before him
the treacherous angst of sexual need
a flayed and twisted skin
he was more than half a century dead
but his line was still live and electric
ten thousand volts passing through my head
frustration and the ache of anticipation
Mary, feline, stretched and wanton
the comedy of do I draw her first
or take her to make sure I had
but a line that becomes too familiar
becomes too slack and mannered
a lover who no longer makes the effort
a hand too idle to dance but simply drags
you’ve seen it all before and before was better
the line of her breast sags and belly droops
her garden of spring grass, now weeds
you can admonish yourself for neglect
but the line insists your hand should wander
what better than Boucher’s plump ripe nudes
to get over serious love gone stale
and bury your face into fleshy pillows
thighs like warm soft waters draw about you
rekindles the loutish youth with a rakish energy
Sète in the summer of seventy five
with more shape than Sophia Loren
globes, curves and clefts of burnt sienna suntan
held in place by strategic triangles of orange cotton
she salsaed more than sauntered along the quay
‘do you speak English?’ I inquired
‘certainly not!’ she puffed, in perfect English
I have a collection of memories like this
like I have collection of Manara’s comic books
all surface and anyway, who wants depth
when the line wriggles its perfect pert behind
contrives her clumsiness to bare her inner thigh
it is after all, what you follow her for
ligne claire all the way up, at least you hope
but perfection is far too predictable
an appetite for chaos quickly grows
of tangles and knots and clusters of webs
of form and abstractions and confusions
ambiguities to be puzzled over and deciphered
to be read like a fortune teller reads entrails
or a like a man interprets a woman’s mind
there is no answer or destination
just experience and the moment of doing
the excitement of drawing a line with your finger
between her breasts and down across her belly
its interest for all its intention, is temporary
a brief visit to her oasis, her welcoming hostelry
before restlessness has your finger on its way
a scuffed charcoal line by a hasty hand
the carelessness of a smudged ink blot
while giving her form and movement
illustrates a fleeting visit and a hurried departure
for all her gorgeousness, she is abandoned
yesterday’s fashion victim, tomorrow’s retro
some other man’s prized possession
these are idle thought clouds drift
memories like the sun’s rays project
the shape of the window across the back wall
expanding the size of the studio to such a point
the entire universe can be contained within its walls
this I notice, during the model’s ghostly absence
when the line meanders listlessly across the page
still life and landscape are worthy subjects
my doodles could be any of these things
the unsettled soul of van Gogh’s turbulent landscapes
lessons in harmony of Morandi’s still lifes
together they reveal the versatile nature of line
the harmonious rhythms and flexing actions
confident strokes and reticent decisions
the line loops back on itself, she arrives
having left sometime ago, as though something
brilliant had took root in my garden, created her anew
forever walking through my life, through my life, naked
and the morning streaming through my window
bathes her in a warm glow, to my astonishment
a woman, I have yet to meet but met sometime ago
explaining women and other nonsense
the first line is the first poem in the slim chapbook explaining women and other nonsense. The main poem after which the chapbook is titled, explaining women, is a satirical poem about a latter day's rake progress, which follows an artist's adventures as he seeks the essence os female perfection and finds cold reality.
Interested in a copy? Contact me: keithbrighouse@yahoo.com