The art of comedy's a sacred thing,
as fresh and precious in its gift of bliss
as when a worshipped one's initial kiss
transports us first. Like Fragonard, we swing
to Lena Horne's delightful rites of spring
on wings of wonder. No analysis
can pull apart a pleasure pure as this.
We humans laugh as nightingales might sing.
We're taught to think creators must be serious,
but humour's both unruly and imperious,
and ridicule's the boy-god's sharpest dart.
We laugh and learn, and don't let worries weary us,
for dreariness is deadly, deleterious:
thanks, heaven, for the comedy of art.
O lady, banish my monochrome days
and weave your coppery threads into
a dim red florescence of coyote words;
There you stand draped in beige chiffon
against preternatural piety of a striptease sea
continuously playing with Prussian blue pastels.
O lady, gallantly unleash your plump cherubs
and licentious cats with that timeless witchery
of a vanilla Guerlain perfume dart;
Throw a dusty rain-soaked rose, Madame Pompadour;
I am flying into another sugary abyss of setting suns
and Fragonard silks of flickering coral.
Is it the fighting of heavenly dragons? Is it Boucher's
brushstrokes that bring us April showers
and the music of irises and champagne pearls?
THE SWING (by Jean-Honoré Fragonard)
I swing high up in the air,
Dressed with opulence and flair,
Smiling down at my lover,
Who's glad to nearby hover,
He takes his hat in his hand,
Pointing towards my dress grand,
My left shoe, I gaily fling,
Seated above in the swing,
The 'putti' watch with envy,
As I swing under the tree,
My dog, Whitie, barks with joy,
Adventure flight, I enjoy,
Uncle manoeuvres the swing,
As I fly skywards and cling,
It's a perfect day for smiles,
Swinging high up miles and miles.
11th Feb 2023
Jean-Honore Fragonard
with paint was quite a card
Cheeks & bosoms all had a place
in sidelong glances in passionate embrance
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