Hon har läppar, som är frusna
Hennes hår karvar ut spår
på hennes huvud; halshuggen
En gång var hon lera; fuktig
i mitt huvud
hon glider mot mig.
Pygmalion by Patrick Kavanagh
I saw her in a field, a stone-proud woman
Hugging the monster Passion’s granite child,
Engirdled by the ditches of Roscommon,
Stone ditches round her waist like serpents coiled. Her lips were frozen in the signature
Of Lust, her hair was set eternally,
No Grecian goddess, for her face was poor,
A twisted face, like Hardship’s face, to me.
And who she was I queried every man
From Ballaghaderreen to grassy Boyle,
And all replied: a stone Pygmalion
Once lifted to a grey terrific smile.
I said: At dawn tomorrow she will be
Clay-sensuous. But they only smiled at me.