I wrote this poem in honor of Pygmalion, who sculpted the perfect woman, fell in love with her, but suffered in the horrible truth that he had fallen for a mound of wax. Venus stepped in, however, and animated the clay and restored his faith in love -- kind of a weird myth.
Praying on Purple
Pygmalion had his Cyprian ivory,
praying on purple for wax and for flesh.
His Galatea concealed his art
with the blessings of beguiling foam from the sea.
A portent of sorrow he avoided.
No fired clay-gift like Pandora
breathed life from a lame workman
possessing of iron and metal
but of his violet-crowned beauty,
acceptor at holy feast.
Pygmalion owed his libations
to the Golden of the beautifully-fired chamber
and kissed Love as often as his chaste island sculpture.
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