A New And Sorry Pygmalion Poem by Richard Blanch

Pygmalion carved his love: ivory, stone
And it lived. From his chisel cascaded
Such hair, that the gods grew kind and the curve
Of the nape Of Her neck put the rainbow

To shame. One Olympian word, it was done.
A moment of pure joy and what he had made
Spoke his name, stroked his cheek, gave him love.
The story was told that gives artists a glow

And a hope. But the shape that I form out of you:
Doesn’t fit, and for all of my striving
For all that I write and I say- what is this?
The spirit grows daily more lithic. That heart

Beats no more; not for me., . Is it true.,
What you say, then? Control kills our loving?
An image comes cold between lips when they kiss.
And Cupid’s gone flying? Stone breaks.. Let us part.
He formed her from the stone. I forced flesh into art.