As noses go, I’d say mine is okay
if it is viewed by someone from the front.
But if you look at it another way,
it’s not so wonderful; let me be blunt.
My nose is long, and if you’re in a place
where other women are along with me,
take note of how my nose fits on my face.
Sideways it could be the longest you’ll see.
.
Imagine please, if you will, a Roman nose,
which means a nose that is a little bent.
A nicer-sounding word for it I suppose
is “aquiline.” But what by that is meant?
For me, the word “aquiline” sounded chic.
But then I looked it up and got a shock.
I learned it means shaped like an eagle’s beak,
which is also larger than that of a hawk.
What in my DNA presupposes
that I have Italian blood, which I have not?
Most of my sisters have short, cute noses.
Why is it that a Roman nose I got?
Few great actresses have a nose like mine,
but I can think of one whose look is great.
Barbara Streisand – is her nose divine?
That’s a nose folks either love or hate!
That bump - that famous bump! Streisand never
had plastic surgery to make it small.
My role model is she. I endeavor
to love my nose. It stands out – after all!
Artist Jaques-Louis David
into politics he once slid
He loved the 'Roman nose'
with Napoleon in a dramatic pose*
*https://useum.org/artwork/Napoleon-Crossing-the-Alps-Jacques-Louis-David-1801
The existence of the Greek profile,
the gods of Olympus...
The Roman Nose Sculpture
the handsome Etruscan athletes...
the wonder of the print
Nordic of Thor,
the typical brunette
of the Latin Lover...
The black gods, black beauty,
Asian exoticism,
the Arab mystery;
All peoples are magnificent
all types... but the most harmonic shape
it is among and among all peoples...
The most harmonic shape,
the admirable people... Woman...!
astonishing people, Woman...!
When I was a little girl,
Mother said to me
on my dad’s side there had been
a pure Cherokee.
I felt so proud that I had
in my ancestry
blood of those who roamed this land
throughout history.
I’d been born with thick black hair,
and my nose grew long!
I supposed the Cherokee
in my blood was strong.
Mom is Welsh and proud of it,
saying I am full
of her Welsh vim and vigor,
plus a poet’s soul!
Of my sisters, there’s just one
with my long-nosed look.
I’ve got the results of the
blood test that she took.
By her DNA we see
Mom’s side very well -
Scotch-Irish, Welsh, Finnish too!
I think that’s all swell.
My dad’s side are the English.
That’s what I suppose.
There’s no Cherokee, so from
whense came my humped nose?
One small part Italian showed
on the test she’d sought.
For ONE percent is it that
Roman nose I got?
May 29, 2017/ Rhymed in 7/5 Trochee form
for the Ancestral roots Poetry Contest of John Hamilton
It is the evening I have waited for,
stiletto heels three inches high adorned my feet,
real nylons hung from garters beneath a
skin tight, leather skirt of maraschino cherry-red.
A blouse of white silk, with a cascade of ruffles,
played peek-a-boo with my décolletage.
Outdoors, the rain pounded the asphalt
making the reality of his arrival even more bizarre.
A Harley barrels into the driveway.
Apparently, he thinks
he is Marlon Brando
and I am Stella?
I stand on the porch, a black umbrella
covering my new do, and watch as he
saunters through the puddles on the concrete walk.
The color of the umbrella my only
non-incongruent element in the frame, the scene made.
His smile was like a box of Chiclet's
on his clean shaven face.
He kisses me.
I lick the raindrop
from the tip of his Roman nose
and take hold of his Russian fingers.
He tosses my umbrella on the porch,
throws his black leather jacket over my shoulders,
lifts me off my feet, and carries me to the bike.
The sun breaks through the clouds and the rain stops,
just in time for the neighbors to glare at the sight of my legs
reflecting on the bikes chrome work.
Shake their respective heads
and donate a few wolf whistles.
across there in cold light
gazing to the passing scenes
sometimes a glance back, then
and see that I’m still staring
a striking mask, your thunderous youth
that sharp ridge of a Roman nose, so narrow
deeply fixed emerald and golden-rimmed
eyes of a shepherd at the wing
light upon an ovular range of beautiful planes
where fine skin on signatures raised
is colored the same soft red
aloft in the morning sun
and how the curve of your brow
slips to a gaunt cheek lifting
love in the stoop of those lips
cradling crescent shapes of a jaw
flexed for greatness
filing away each of your features
to a safe place inside
where a figurine of grace
will wait to be painted