Winter 1981 • Vol. III No. 1 Poetry |

Two Poems: The Woman in Black

No one would have seen the garden as he did, Heard the ululation, felt the violent throbbing, Posed the beautiful woman there in the little nothing, in black. To some just an egotist who wanted to anticipate The sad cry in the garden when desire fades, Who contrived, well in advance, to see this figure so understated as to suggest mourning. He himself, with his black hair and white suit like a confined Pierrot, Nevertheless may remind us a bit of ourselves, Those of us with our floral veins and our black nightmares. I am speaking of men who have done it all the other way, Loved the voluptuous, complaisant women in their brilliant silks, Let the gardener alone dispose of the corpses of flowers. But, suddenly, some time near sunset glow, the woman in black Occurs as perhaps the only extension possible, Suitably dressed for almost anything that could happen. Will you let out your flowing sleeves, Pierrot, will you dance?—The dark liquid in the dahlias still has a

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The Barge

By Charles Edward Eaton

No one would have seen the garden as he did, Heard the ululation, felt the violent throbbing, Posed the beautiful woman there in the little nothing, in black. To some […]

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