The Artist's Dilemma

The wind blew in and the wind blew out

And it surged around the eaves,

The door out to the patio slammed

And the yard filled up with leaves,

Then Susan sighed, ‘There’s goes my ride,

I was going to take the mare,

Now what can we do on a Sunday when

The wind’s so wild out there?’

 

Her aunt lay back on the couch and stared

At me, with her doe-black eyes,

Not much older than Susan, she

Was Venus, in disguise,

Her fingers ran through her coal-black hair

And her hand smoothed down her thigh,

‘Why don’t you ask the artist, dear,

Before his paints run dry.’

 

I’d finished painting the background in

Of the leaves that swirled in the air,

But put my palette aside and turned

To look for her meaning there,

Then Susan laughed, as she always did:

‘Do you mean that you’d be game?

I’ve only modelled alone before

But two? It would be insane!’

 

Imelda slowly uncurled herself

Rose steadily to her feet,

‘I’ll be the older matron, while

You shall be young, and sweet.’

I shrugged, effecting a nonchalance

That I didn’t really care,

But said, ‘Okay, I can paint you,

Put your clothes on the old armchair.’

 

I played about with my palette, mixed

The tones in a kind of blush,

Squeezed the Titanium White, and mixed

It in with the tip of my brush,

And when I finally turned around

They were stood, stark naked there,

I said, ‘Clasp hands, then back to back,

And Sue, let down your hair.’

 

I’d painted my wife a thousand times

So I knew each curve and line,

But Imelda, this was the first I’d seen

And I caught my breath in time,

Her black hair over her shoulders and

Her breasts, so firm and white,

Her hips the marvel of womanhood

And her thighs - a man’s delight!

 

I turned on back to the easel, tried

To steady my shaking hand,

I thought of myself as an artist,

Underneath it, I was a man!

And Imelda caught a glimpse of that

As her lips curled in a smile,

She knew that my heart was pounding,

But my lust would wait for a while.

 

That painting hangs on the passage wall

And visitors stare in awe,

At the vision of womanly beauty

That the eyes of the artist saw,

And Imelda bridles at compliments

Then gives me the evil eye,

She’s often said, there’s a place in bed,

But I shake my head, with a sigh!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[spiritwind]

Your poetry, as always, is impecable. This time you led the reader through a gamut of emotions and thoughts as temptation seized the artist. Very sensual yet saying nothing at all lurid... just alluring. Beautiful and, in the end, noble. Women love a man with such great self control so much so that he is allowed his sighs.

[Tate Morgan]

Oh the laments of the lonely painter.Pity be for him who sees what he may never have.Wonder which is worse. To never have known or to betray ones trust.I dont think I want to find out. A beautiful poem well done old friend.This will be your greatest year, your finest hour. Your works shine like a beacon in the night. I often find i stay up late when you are writing to see them freshly finished. Yours is a honored life well lived.
Tate

[Valentine]

Oh..the poor artist..painting a lovely lady and being married..Many men would have took her up on the invitation..Being a painter myself..I never did one of amale model..I wonder how taht might have affected me..Hum..Another nice one David..love and God bless the wife Lyn and you..Kathie

[Kristallo]

I loved this! It's so inspiring the way that you can so effortlessly capture the life and mindset of any person, and you deliver their story with such vivid detail and finesse. Another truly captivating and flawless poem; it's always a pleasure. :)