Best Pygmalion Poems
Nothing is impossible; the word itself says, ‘I’m possible!(Audrey Hepburn*)
Her words weren’t just clever; they carried a steady flame,
a truth shaped by a woman who earned her gentle fame.
Audrey—not by glamour, nor the shimmer of the screen,
but by the quiet discipline that lived in every scene.
At thirteen, I met her inside a movie theater’s velvet dark~
she was a fair lady, rising with a fierce, determined spark.
She didn’t play a flower girl; she became her on that stage,
each gesture carved with mastery, each breath a turning page.
As Eliza, her voice was not perfection—it was courage finding form,
a testament that transformation can outlast even the toughest storm.
She climbed from flower girl soot to radiance with a strength both soft and true,
and something in her rising said to me, You can rise up, too.
But Audrey’s greatest brilliance wasn’t bound to scripted art;
it lived within her kindness and her fiercely tender heart.
She carried hope to children when the cameras ceased to roll,
proving that her greatest role was the healing of a young soul.
When she said “I’m possible,” it wasn’t just a line;
it echoed with the power of a life lived by design~
a life that taught a girl like me to challenge every wall,
to trust that even fragile dreams can learn to stand tall.
Audrey’s courage shaped my compass; her grace refined my aim.
She taught me that the impossible is just another name
for every path I feared to take, for every dream I hid~
and that becoming possible begins the moment I did.
So I honor her by rising, by stepping past my doubt,
by choosing every day to let my truest self come out.
For Audrey showed me early—with her life, her art, her voice~
that impossible is only real until we make a different choice.
And to this day I follow her echo, her elegant call:
Nothing is impossible--I'm possible, after all.
I am love’s kiss eternal
leaning upon
the lips of loyalty
O artisan of relentless flare
I validate every verse you vent
vehemently breathing
through the sighing silence ~
venerating this sculpted ivory skin
stirred and awakened
by your inherent intuition
charmingly echoing
amidst the faithful fingers
of your passionate soul;
a carved creation
chiseled in chivalry
draped in the desire
of a destiny designed
engraved away
from the ruthless rays
of the sinister sun…
I am awake…
no longer a marble metaphor
but alive and entranced
within the shadow
of your affectionate allegiance
listening to the
aroma of this ache
tracing this toned silhouette
resembling the translucent
textures of the moon ~
deaf to the twilight
chimes of the sky,
as the clay of life
nevermore comprehends
this ethereal vow,
this undeniable flame
softened through
the stone-warm touch of truth ~
as your creative choreography
of calligraphy
caresses every curve
embracing imperfect perfection
like I am
the undressed dream
you have forever wrapped
in porcelain patience
like angel-feathered Venus
with blushing wings
of gothic grace ~
scattered seashells
adorned where
thoughts of infinity tiptoe
through Aphrodite’s galaxies
beneath flickers of reveries…
and I belong to no other
but the paradise
within your familiar hands
holding the hope
that dwells within
the heavens of my heart’s pulse
like a forsaken talisman ~
the kismet rose...thornless,
only you were
fated to keep ~
the embossed emblem
of love
even time itself
cannot defy
*Inspired by the artwork "
Pygmalion and Galatea by Jean-Léon Gérôme"
As an aperitif to understand the essence of thought
Blood of a young tortoise touched my lips
Seldom as it is - pure ichor – I whisper’d in a trot
Let me get drunk on it while deifying the lunar eclipse
That is what I deserve, that is what I ought.
Is loneliness a hook up with the animalistic self?
Wearing an anorak to withstand the wind of banality
In the midst of a blizzard of an entrenched life
Giving the advantage to the senses of vitality,
Not more than Dido ripping her heart with a knife.
Give me the rise of an insurrection I dreamt about as a boy
A rebellion that would let principles be a judge,
This would surely deliver the desire for joy,
Or an uprising of the loyalists that won’t fudge
But will steer clear off temptations or a ploy.
As a grey fakir I paint a picture into a smudge,
Away from an aureate garden of gild
Into a desolate dryness of a scorch’d land
With my sole soul strongly willed
And a single stroke of my angry hand.
I wished to give tonality in sound and in colour
While being smitten by the freshly cut grass
All the riches will never appease the dolour
As I stand next to a window made of the Venetian glass.
Here I am, in justice I fall
Being accused of playing Pygmalion
Exalted to the throne of Gaslight and all
Given the heart on the platter as a medallion
Draining an amassment of turbulence
From the cluster of words that smack the gob
And remain in our ears as stubborn permanence
And I run, and run, and run, non-stop.
He had a Galatea named Deidre.
His plastic inamorata.
Considering his advanced age
she was also his Lolita.
Deidre and he would climax together.
while he played his essential part.
For a while he sparked and enkindled.
Canoodling in domestic bliss,
he would dress her,
paint her toenails, apply makeup;
see to her every need.
It seemed to him
that Deidre’s sexual demands
grew stronger.
He lost sleep, grew weak of limb,
his health failed,
until he could no longer manage
for himself.
In the end
she had to carry him everywhere
like a doll.
He had a Galatea named Deidre.
His plastic inamorata.
Considering his advanced age
she was also his Lolita.
Together, they canoodled in secret.
Time passed,
it began to dawn upon him,
that Deidre’s sexual demands
grew ever stronger.
He lost sleep, grew weak of limb,
his health failed,
until he could no longer manage
for himself.
In the end,
she had to carry him around,
like a doll.
Pygmalion, with your chisel and your mind,
Did fashion beauty past the mortal lot;
That Aphrodite then with life did bind,
And this Galatea, who your heart had sought.
Then bask a moment in that glorious morn,
When wonders new awake unto the world;
But what the age that with her life was born,
And what beyond that dawn shall be unfurled?
For soon enough, the chisel comes for you,
And all that was has but a certain date;
And all that will be, shinier and new;
Is obsolescence destiny, or fate?
In time, Galateas galaxies shall own,
And all we are, shall scarcely well be known.
Pygmalion, it were stoutly done
To chisel up your special one.
You can't get a date,
But quarried a crate,
By which all your courting is none.
it started with a smell of iron, trickles of sweat - not galatea's, but the room's. there was a cold hard baseline of nothing for a long time, and then like a final push of the shutters, an overwhelming and chaotic onrush of light; light didn't dawn, it pierced like a dart of dry salt to the back of her eyelids. that word is actually a second word. her first thought wasn't a word at all; the heavy presence of her own head on top of the school, sitting on a neck that never needed to bear it. then a sound, a frantic wet hitch of air. it sounded like someone was gasping right beside her ear - his breath. something warm pressed against her cheek - not a gust. he was trying to breathe down her mouth like he was inflating a drowning dog. she tried to tilt her head away, but her muscles were still thick; half-trapped in the grit of the pedestal. when she finally managed to open her eyes, the world was blurry, cluttered with hammers, oil rags, and the gray dust of her former skin, scattered across the floorboards. and there he was! not a god; some random man with dirt under his fingernails, looking at her with all the horrors in the world, because his beautiful, silent toy had just swallowed and blinked.
man makes statue real
authority stripped away ~
a shift in power