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.
Edgar Bowers's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Virgin Considered As A Picture by Edgar Bowers )
- Vicious circle, Jole Hans
- Get your body and mind back, O men, gajanan mishra
- Angst, Jole Hans
- I Will..., ging taping
- Another Reaser Christmas!, Sharilynn Dawn Reaser
- A dogs life, michael hagwood
- MIKE WASN'T HAPPY, shannon strauss
- Unique We Are, Mantu Mahakul
- Shadow, Liffy Liu
- Broken angel, Barbara Dixion