On The Face Of Christopher Marlowe,1585 - Poem by Adam Fitzgerald
Dank and of phosphorous hue
from your strict Cambridge frame,
each harsh cheek a white plum
cinched in a pink's slight pinch,
your complexion, blotched powder—
what deft obsequy will you hear?
Your convoluted guise: impassioned,
numb; a stature refusing flinch
where ruddied oils milked your features
to a fine rose-silk, a tapestry
of Orient spice, the precious reds
and precious whites, whitest scents—
immediate, dismissible, alluring.
Your busheled brown hair strands
slouched flamboyantly, a dust,
a tanner's stain-stitched satchel.
Your strident eyebrows arched
as if a nebulous star's froth
tossed into a striding pony arc
coiled taut, tensile whiplashed bark.
Your sandfaded mustache halved
like a willow drenched half-under
the bright red bay of your lips
banked by an effeminate beard—
but these, not the colors I claim.
Rather, the eyelid-silting brown
seething its fixed brown stare,
a hard verb's glare, incensing grip,
a woodsmoke weaved tight to circle,
impenetrably hurt, diaphanous and bare.
In crawlspaces jut from the nose's
slope and the eye's wide slanting V,
the scratched flesh stanchions a tangle,
incredulous white shadows angling
underneath a diminutive, possessing blue
that edges, wrestles the left eye open.
This stark blue that tears the watcher's
from the background's dim, the collar's
flower-flap, the loose collar which wraps
around the narrowing, half-buoyant neck
but—in these hidden blue latitudes,
eschewed from tame concentric pupils,
a swift, chilled flame recedes where
a reservoir and lake's imagined, percussive
air warring while your gaze easily gazes,
spilling across a vast brow-cornered inch
to the eyes—a fabric of onyx rocks
that cast a stinging jag-tooth glint
from the water-crust surface. Concealing
nothing. Revealing nothing. Heaving
in thin heavy veils a petalled light
that weighs these waves to pyramids:
where no person lies, only a presence
split, a wretched semblance of water
rocks rendered with the rest of you,
come from some unknown artist's brush,
a dry, persistent routine gleaming
little of your indifferent sex... You, drowning
proud in fate's shrug, doom encusping
your rich aristocratic oxygenless pose—
yourself your Muse—an incandescent stare—
a solitary, dead, time-orphaned stare.
Comments about On The Face Of Christopher Marlowe,1585 by Adam Fitzgerald
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe