They say Hitchcock got his kicks
shooting on the set,
by slyly humiliating his virginal chic
blondes—not from the gritty films that
stressed
and drained the rest of us.
Thrills and catharses are not for the
artist:
What poet or composer knows the quick
intake of breath, the delighted shock
his music causes? —Beethoven’s
explosions,
Mozart’s soaring luminous voices, or the
oblique
harmonies of Chopin?
And while our eyes, tongues, noses,
hands
explore the transitions
from smooth to rough, and in between
the folds of skin
the dissonance of ginger, clove, and
cinnamon,
while straining joints, the thrust and
slide
of hips and thighs create
sure, syncopated counterpoint
around a core of pleasure,
I might wonder
whether you are ravished as I am
by the naked progression from dominant
to subdominant
and back again . . .
and back again . . . .
Many things I might ponder
as we play together
with our bodies
making variations
on their own
suspensions
and
delayed
resolutions . . . .
Oh I might—but I am taken beyond wonder.
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Top image, photo by George Platt Lynes, from a source I can no longer identify.
Middle photo from http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1297/1351215750_8cbe61fd5f.jpg
