Poem: Pygmalion’s Brush
There is the ‘Pygmalion’ mythology and the masterpiece of the same name by the venerable George Bernard Shaw. The entire hullabaloo is traditional to us — I getting inspired by Sarah Polyakov’s artwork, and then trying to make good of it. We have collaborated on a few, and this is in line with the tradition of ekphrasis art.
This attempt is simple — go by the adage ‘A picture is worth a thousand words’ — so I have taken a thousand words to tell this story in a poetic narrative way. It is long, so bear with me.
Pygmalion’s brush means that it is his ‘paintbrush’ in a way, as indicated by the girl ( I presume as Galatea) in this picture, as I have applied my creative liberty, and the second brush is the ‘brush of his lips’ against hers, to bring her alive.
Poem : Pygmalion’s brush
Listen to this beautiful tale of immortal love
Of a Cypriot king and his perfect sculpture
Which all started with that celibate vow
That shall hold us in intense rapture
A curse and a boon, these interventions divine
By those Grecian Goddesses of romance
How an inert sculpture can grow a spine
When heartful love is given a chance.
Part 1 — Venus’s Curse
In a world that needed faith in the divine
If one had the potion of love as a bonus
A catalyst for romance, as smooth as wine
Stands apart, soaked in wine, our God Venus.
For every single one who tends to believe
A thousand hover like the clouds hiding the sun
Like the Propoetides, who schemed and deceived
Denying Venus her place, mocking her as a pagan.
From a whisper at first, it grew into a roaring thunder
Even the staunch believers just began to wonder
For we know when a lie is a thousand times told
Truth hides somewhere and is left in the cold.
As clouds of doubt gathered slowly above
The blasphemous canards rose from below
Surprised first and now angry, the Goddess of love
Who are the wicked ones with thoughts so shallow?
Her white skin glowed with unbridled wrath
A bastion of love, she treads the angry path
Non-belief is one thing, blasphemy is another
their wagging tongues, they shall better tether.
Prospeotides’ mischief gets a tad worse
What a way to get in line for a divine curse
A froth forms as brimming wrath flows over
Nowhere can the culprits now run for cover.
‘When you trample my repute for your vanity
Vie you with perpetual dalliance in promiscuity
The world shall listen to your notorious fame
You shall possess no sense of shame.’
‘Thirsty with lush, you will forever rush,
Your cheeks shall lose all power to blush
Turn into a hard flint on a slender touch
With all that, there is nothing left much.’
With a curse that they never saw in their dream
The Propeotides plead, plough, and scream
Non-belief is one thing, blasphemy is another
The curse stands now, and perhaps, forever.
Part 2 — Pygmalion’s vow
‘Peace is a beautiful thing’ — Pygmalion thinks aloud
He wonders if his reign makes his citizens proud
Soliloquy submerged in the summer rain from heaven
A bit of shine forms the arc with a color of seven.
Peace is a fickle thing, for beautiful things are fickle
A cloud appears on the horizon and his senses tickle
A foreboding sense like a dark river flows within
For he wants to steer his nation away from sins.
For good to win, destiny has to show its hands sinister
Breathless and baffled, here comes a scared minister
‘The Propeotides are luring our men, oh my king’
‘I daren’t say- a promiscuous society is in the making.’
Such a fall! — the news that Pygmalion could never take
For he knows that Propeotides were of royal make
Yet, they have slipped and fallen into this deep abyss
If women hold their counsel, the nation rests in peace.
Women’s smiles can sail a thousand ships indeed
Brave men they create, with the love and care they feed
Pygmalion weeps in silence — ‘My nation loves its women
And it is our woman who makes this barren land heaven.’
‘Yet, a nation goes berserk when its women go astray
Devolution leads to disaster and disaster to dismay
I detest the faults in our women and their faltered ways
I shall remain celibate, and my mind shall never go astray.’
The distraught king searches for his chisel and hammer
Deep in his upset mind, an image slowly forms in a blur
His hands touching the cold rock for that moment
Imperfect and lifeless for now, but it was his turn to vent.
Part 3 — Galatea is born (Pygmalion’s brush): The Sculpture
As he caresses the cold block of marble
His mind is chaotic, his thoughts garbled
Slowly, steadily, he revives himself without a rush
He collects the chisel, hammer, palette, and brush.
A new morning beckons, he shall turn a new leaf
Riding on his celibacy vow, hiding away his grief
His mind slowly churns, imagination his forte
A beautiful maiden shapes in his mental porte.
The marble melts in his one last, deep stare
Unshaply edges stripped, the curves lay bare
Shaped with the deft strokes of hammer and chisel
His vision flows into his hands, as he slowly whistles.
The sculpture shines in splendorous white
like the milky full moon after a chaotic twilight
Caressing the contours, softly, without any rush
The final touches from Pygmalion’s brush.
His firm heart skips a beat, slides, and swerves
Savoring the beauty of her voluptuous curves
If all the beauty his creation could capture
Its unfathomable beauty holds him in rapture
Here is when, Galatea, his mind maiden is born
The last fringes of his celibate vow are now gone
Chipped by his chisel, she is now his eternal crush
A coy smile, at the last touch of Pygmalion’s brush.
He stands there, her Creator, now on wobbly knees
His heart races, her beauty now an endless tease
A fleeting thought in his mind, he slowly wonders
Can God unite them and not keep them asunder?
Part 4 — Prayer to Aphrodite
Through sleepless nights, he twists and turns
Lost in love, his uneasy mind feverishly churns
Can I be with you, my dear Galatea, forever?
Walk on our beaches holding our hands together?
The day is not far perhaps, for every worthy wish
The Universe creates those moments we cherish
Pretty and pure, paths lead to some Almighty
The answers could lie at the altar of Aphrodite.
The day comes, the day of festivals and prayers
A carnival is born, of hawkers and soothsayers
Prayers and plays, all about the Goddess of love
To bring Her attention to those pleading below
He sets forth to pray and offer at her altar divine
His mind desperately looking for a favorable sign
Words stuck and tongue-tied, teeth become fence,
He dithers and fears, but pleads in soulful silence
His celibate vows are gone and he swallows his pride
Slowly, now surely, his words flow and his tongue unfurls
I pray and wish to marry and marry only such bride
who bears such living likeness of my soulful ivory girl.
The woman I shall love and will forever cherish
Hold her high and shower love, till the day I perish
Bless me, Almighty Aphrodite, for I fervently wish
A woman of my dreams, and my life shall flourish.
Part 5- Galatea is born (Pygmalion’s brush): The Lover
He stands before her, with wobbly knees
Cold on touch, she stands silent and still
Frigid, white, and cold, yet the way she does tease
Will she, Galatea, ever bend to his romantic will?
A little yellow on her white, as the sunbeams dance
Her cold mellows soaking them in, her skin now warm
Mesmerizing in his romantic heart, he falls into a trance
Why won’t she fall, if he tried his tactile charm?
A little touch, then his finger runs slow on her arms
Bristles of his mustache brush against her face
Slowly, and slowly…her locked lips grow warm
That feeling of life, love with resplendent grace.
As they cuddle and embrace, he wonders anew
A Creator can fall for his creation, so madly in love
How the divine listens to such love, pure and true
A story that can be told, forever, by those stars above.
Part 6: Happily Ever After
If a girl could kiss a frog, and that could turn a prince
A king could kiss a statue — that a story not to wince
Galatea breathes and smiles, with such grace and poise,
She accepts his proposal to marry on the date of her choice.
The bride and the groom ride on a four-horse carriage
To the altar of Aphrodite, on the day of their marriage
The sculpture and sculptor propitiate and pray to her
For a long, loving life, and to be together forever.
Time flies like birds, beautiful memories they adorn
A baby girl, the fruit of their love, arrives one dawn
‘Paphos,’ they call her, and that makes a city
Her name, they say, will be etched for eternity.
A tale of ivory, hammer, chisel, and paintbrush
How a creation becomes a creator’s crush
That comes alive, again when their lips brush
A story of love and life, forever rich and lush.
If you have reached this far, I thank you sincerely for your patience. I love this piece, and if you do, leave a comment.
~Ashok Subramanian © 2023
