Object D'Art

I wrote this poem maybe 10 years ago or more and I initially intended it to be in sonnet form but it just wouldn't fall into place. I then did a public reading of it at Poetry At the Pub, which if I remember rightly was broadcast on the local university radio station 2NUR. At that time I went through a phase of using French phrases for the titles, I have no idea why!


Objet D'Art

She is the object of her only art,
the art to keep her loneliness at bay,
and so she starts preparing for her part
as she has done a thousand other days

Her palette ready: colour for er cheeks,
her lips, her eyelids, lashes, for her face
She tilts her head, admiring her technique,
soft focus beauty, subtle seamless grace

A woman now transformed to fantasy,
her marketplace the comfort of the bar,
where other artists promise ecstasy,
compete like her to sell their works of art

The evening blurs her tidy artistry,
some of her color left on other lips,
(or worse if all goes well) and she
counts out her small commission as she sips,

A glass of wine. Then home to clean her canvas once again,
for other masterpieces, other evenings, other men.