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Image for the poem atelier nude

atelier nude



I make art.  this is what I do.
my passion is the instrument that hastens me into
verses of battle & tragic love affairs, of desolate
days & stormy nights.

a poem is composed of truth & mystery; it’s a haven
of crystal reflections & obscure shadows. & when
there’s a woman in it, it’s beautiful.

I speak of ‘she.’ she who comes to me when I’m in need.
she knows of my savage desires, my carnal avidity that
is sacred & profane. she gives of her nightingale flesh &
absorbs the heat & the torment of mine.

she delivers herself to me, as Dora Maar delivered
herself to Picasso, as his model, companion, & bedmate.
his Spaniard blood derived from her sexual gratification, &
from that infamy, she became his art.

a woman knows of the irrational passion that burns inside
a painter, or a poet. she is drawn to that fire like a papillon,
even as it singes her wings. an artist exists for his art, & his
mistress, his Dora, his Kiki, will submit all of her flawless
skills at lovemaking, all of her naked charms that name her
Woman….. to gratify his enormous sexual craving.
so it was with Picasso.  so it is with me.

when I envision her,
she is nude, she is beautiful –
and now, she is art…


Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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