I meant this poem to be a kind of veiled, fantastical tribute to legendary poet, filmmaker, and artist Jean Cocteau whose work has inspired not just his adherents but generations of artists as well, from actor Jean Marais to singer David Sylvian. In the text, I recall the line from his film Orpheus (1950) - "Orpheus's death entered the room and watched him sleep."
And now Jean lies asleep And now I am the watcher by his side Your skin is waken my love The thin white of your brow Woven Like flax on the loom What a hand the angels dealt you my love A continent was great enough to hold you encompass your soul After all If I was to touch you would the proud nose and beautiful Beautiful hands crumble to dust? Or would you sigh And laugh yet flinch from my touch And melt into a sweet pool of brilliant watercolour
The eyes of the curious Of the vulgar, the sensationalists Are emblazoned On your sunken chest They have left you alone at last My love But they have marked you
How will you escape my love? Whose right is it to claim you? As you lie there can I Or anyone Hold you with our small hands lift your stoney head And say - he is mine I am he I claim his life his soul his oeuvre... The peace that was never yours is Not yours still Yet you sleep easily
What is your secret My love? Because it is not My love Can you teach me yet?
