Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Poem #331 of 365

The film buff boys spoke her name
as if she were a desired nymph
of the Hill Country,

and I found myself jealous of
this virginal ingenue
of a French-language classic.

What did she have that I
didn't have, and how could
I get it, if I didn't have it?

My neurotic compulsion to
be equal, to make Austin
men revere me as much,
swelled into obsession.

What she had? She had
a director, Robert Bresson.
And her creator, Georges Bernanos.

And her name?
Mouchette. She was
the uniquely captivating
French girl Mouchette.

I had never seen Rick
and Brecht and those
other film boys so smitten
as with that threadbare teen
in the muddy clogs.

But tonight, we met.
After all those years, I
dared to see her and study
her gaze.

I was enchanted, I am enthralled,
She is that muse I had
once wooed. I now give her
breadth with my imagination.

Her stride has changed my walk.
I wear a skirt like the rural French.
Her mystery smokes in my dark smile.

Mouchette has finally entered into my life.

(after seeing the film "Mouchette" by Robert Bresson)

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez

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