Poetry Owen Lucas — March 11, 2015 12:41 — 0 Comments
350 – Owen Lucas
Les Baigneuses, vers 1900-1905Â
We will not know you, particolour
Figures, while you hesitate so—
You must force yourselves into
Action, slip entirely into the grey
Water, feeling it yield to you,
Weed and stones blowing about
Your solid calves, moved as if by
A sudden, capricious breeze.
There is a kind of fire in the water,
Bellowing softly of its power—
An old fire, dwindling inside an
Ashen frame of brittle wood—
Liable at any second to collapse
And bear your fair bodies with it
Down the tide. O do not remain
So chastely at the water’s edge!
Be taken, in this first way, if you
Would not fall to lesser powers.
Abandon yourselves, Mädchen, to
The cool flame, the desolate wind.
What am I?
Bioluminescent eye 
	That sees by the shine 
	Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense 
	And my stepchild, 
	Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men; 
	Glamour 
	Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours 
	From the forest 
	To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney
				

