Treasure Island

Edgar Bowers

(2 March 1924 - 4 February 2000 / Rome)

The Virgin Considered As A Picture


Her unawed face, whose pose so long assumed
Is touched with what reality we feel,
Bends to itself and, to itself resumed,
Restores a tender fiction to the real.


And in her artful posture movement lies
Whose timeless motion flesh must so conceal;
Yet what her pose conceals we might surmise
And might pretend to gather from her eyes


The final motion flesh gives up to art.
But slowly, if we watch her long enough,
The nerves grow subtler, and she moves apart


Into a space too dim with time and blood
For our set eyes to follow true enough,
Or nerves to guess about her, if they would.

Submitted: Thursday, April 22, 2010

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Comments about this poem (The Virgin Considered As A Picture by Edgar Bowers )

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  • Ken Armour (4/23/2012 8:02:00 AM)

    These are not comments
    And certainly not poems
    Bowers IS a poet
    Leave him alone
    He needs no pedantic analogy
    Oops
    I just did the same (Report) Reply

  • V.e. Perkins (4/22/2012 3:33:00 PM)

    The subtlety and perfection of this Petrarchan sonnet reveals Bowers as a genius of insight and a master of
    language. I bow before the man who could see and say at this high level. Vivienne (Report) Reply

Read all 3 comments »

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