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I have the Toreador flaw. This is a reference (almost of course) to gaming, specifically the White Wolf game of Vampire. The clan Toreador is known for a tendency to, when confronted with something the Toreador in question finds beautiful, just staring for a long time, trying to capture the thing fascinating in memory forever.
So - I have the Toreador flaw. Or, as I put it in my short story entitled "Dragon's Eyes": ...I was caught up in the seeing of them for a moment. The eye of an artist is a difficult thing to have, because every so often an image will grab it and hold it for a quiet eternity.
I am plagued, however, by an inability to draw or paint in such a way that the image that I see, that captures my mind, is actually still there on the page for others to share. My drawing, rendering, colour, all feel inadequate to what I mean to see and share, the things that matter about the image lost.
However, I can write poetry. This poem is an attempt to capture for the reader one of those images which I cannot explain.
Soft curl of a lock of brown and gold silk
- 7 June 1998
Images and Words
That I want to brush back from your eyes
But cannot - the perfect beauty of that curve
Not for touching, capturing my eyes with visions.
Eyes wavering between green and brown
Like dappled sunlight across the forest floor in spring
Humor in them, despite their pain
Stubbornness that refuses to fail -
Fox-wisdom, too smart for its own good
Making footprints today to chase tomorrow
In search of the enigma that made them.
Tail-chasing edges, heart full of paradox
Deep-tangled in murky patterns, disjoint
From flying lines, grey-feathered wings -
The night-watcher, mystery, owl-wisdom
Which sees and understands, but aloof;
Flitting ghost-silent in the dark.
These, the sparks I see in rich, deep eyes
While trying not to reach out
Break the tableau by brushing back your hair -
I see there the spark of magic
And like all flames, I am entranced.
I see a thousand hurts to soothe
And a myriad thousand possibilities
Of which I long to be a part -
Wistful, too, my watching
Prayer for hope of hope
Visions of time
Joy in the utter perfect beauty
Of a curled lock of hair over your eyes.