The girl in the art exam applies herself
to colour – her brush layers a threatening
blueness across the sheet. The gobbet
of dark sputum on her palette, applied,
lightens to rich navies and ripples of light.
She’s intent on the centre, on the dark heart
of the mystery. But the edges are exquisite –
where the brush leaves the paper are feathers
that curl into air, into whiteness not planned,
into innocence no paint can defeat.
If I turn to inspiration, it is breath taken
because someone cared less about margins,
about what frames the deepest, and most
casual intentions, to deliver an end.
Dante and Beatrice 
Henry Holiday [1839-1927]
Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool
The things men want.
the held high breasts of
Beatrice’s companion as she
to look at him –
this strange man
in velvet green whose orange red tights
match the lining of his gown, his hat,
probably his thoughts,
But colour-blind Dante wants
none of that
very attainable-looking stuff.
The girl in red
has a foot shaped
like a snake’s head.
At the triangular junction
of her legs and belly
a ripple of cloth gathers
But, Dante, his face
enclosed forever in a Florentine sneer
that would sour wine,
ignores the obvious,
put there by the painter
for his obvious ease,
at the rose
held like him
where satiny cloth billows
under Beatrice’s chin.
His left hand grips his ribs,
his gown, as if he has misplaced
Beatrice decides wisely
to ignore this man.
Her shift clings to her legs
and her feet
are already dancing away.
Her body is for the birds,
and for horticulture.