I’m a face-man. Then, its on to appraising her everything else. #whitegirlsaremagic — celebrate their rich diversity right here:
Gilded Siren. Designer stilettos. Elbow bumped; red wine trickles down her naked forearm.
Goofy Girl. Trips over her own feet running up to me. Wants to titter but snorts instead.
The Feline. Always so serious! but make her laugh and she can’t keep her hands to herself.
The Keeper. Her touch is light even when nobody is looking. Don’t spoil her.
Wounded Hollow. What’s so great about darkness anyway? A ballad is all that’s left.
Artsy Chick. Dainty shoulders under an unfashionable t-shirt. Lost and looking.
Earnest Naïf. Watery eyes, pale cheeks. “Men listen because they want to fuck you, dear.”
Dark Lady. Smart and brittle. In passing, our gazes hold longer than is allowed.
Ebullient Flirt. Giggles like an explosion at a chimes factory. A rump made for spanking.
John Berryman (born John Allyn Smith, Jr.) is on the outside, looking in:
Filling her compact & delicious body
with chicken páprika, she glanced at me
Fainting with interest, I hungered back
and only the fact of her husband & four other people
kept me from springing on her
or falling at her little feet and crying
‘You are the hottest one for years of night
Henry’s dazed eyes
have enjoyed, Brilliance.’ I advanced upon
(despairing) my spumoni.—Sir Bones: is stuffed,
de world, wif feeding girls.
—Black hair, complexion Latin, jewelled eyes
downcast . . . The slob beside her feasts . . . What wonders is
she sitting on, over there?
The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars.
Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry.
—Mr. Bones: there is.
“Dream Song 4” (1959)
Czesław Miłosz also learns that some things cannot be possessed:
I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro stations flew by; I didn’t notice them. What can be done, if our sight lacks absolute power to devour objects ecstatically, in an instant, leaving nothing more than the void of an ideal form, a sign like a hieroglyph simplified from the drawing of an animal or bird? A slightly snub nose, a high brow with sleekly brushed-back hair, the line of the chin – but why isn’t the power of sight absolute? – and in a whiteness tinged with pink two sculpted holes, containing a dark, lustrous lava. To absorb that face but to have it simultaneously against the background of all spring boughs, walls, waves, in its weeping, its laughter, moving it back fifteen years, or ahead thirty. To have. It is not even a desire. Like a butterfly, a fish, the stem of a plant, only more mysterious. And so it befell me that after so many attempts at naming the world, I am able only to repeat, harping on one string, the highest, the unique avowal beyond which no power can attain: I am, she is. Shout, blow the trumpets, make thousands-strong marches, leap, rend your clothing, repeating only: is!
She got out at Raspail. I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.
“Esse” (1954), transl. Czesław Miłosz and Robert Pinsky
But other things can be:
You lead me on with those innocent eyes
You know I love the element of surprise
In the garden I was playing the tart
I kissed your lips and broke your heart
You were acting like it was the end of the world
U2, “Until The End of the World” (1992)