Racquel Welch dies, and we whom she glazed as teenage boys
Crack and crumble. At 82 one imagines that while the shine has gone
There’s the sheen of a former beauty passed on, transformed
By age into aether, and where what she was returned to her,
That spectacular face and shape now re-fashioned
As if time’s troubled slate were wiped clean.
Gina Lollabrigida, too, departed some months before her;
Had another face which stirred fires with the arch of her eyebrows,
A bounteous figure and the sheer exquisiteness of her nose.
How these women looked blazed their trail for most men,
And for women too, despite being so much more accomplished.
And yet it was the mark of their features that made every breath
They stole a fan’s rose. Gina’s face at nearly one hundred
Seemed sunk in the last photos of her, the surrounding skin
Sending the prize of her poise back to source. I have seen none
Of Racquel. She was careful to preserve past perfection.
Content to count alone time’s charged changes,
Or perhaps discontented with the cost of par’s path
On its course. None can escape this decline. That we know.
And no-one can defeat, not completely, and yet we realise
That true beauty can never fold for age. It adapts.
Women bare this weight, far more than any man.
Men can’t match it. But for a woman, age coarsens,
Or renders them even more beautiful. Men stay trapped.
There are a few exceptions, of course. One thinks of
The equally perfect Paul Newman, whose face in age
Was Mount Rushmore after it had been golden beach.
But then these were all stars who gave the world they knew
Fresh won orbits. The calibre of illusion was cosmic
Due to the invited desires which forever appeared
Beyond reach. Ann-Margret of late has played elderly
But sensual vixens. Staring through dark mascara
With her come to bed eyes and lush bust. Honor Blackman
Still blazed until her final day, beyond ninety.
Theresa Russell’s face and figure still stun me,
And in her sixties, she will forever retain my heart’s trust.
Beauty often seems soft, but it also scorches our senses;
Its accomplishments still inspire just as its tragedies
Bare their wounds. As one thinks of those lost and what was
Endured as they suffered. From Natalie Wood to Jean Seberg,
From Rita Hayworth to Marilyn Monroe’s nightshade croons.
The British actress Imogen Hassall snared my soul with both
Her immaculate looks and sad story, and for Kate Bush
I am captive to music and air she still shapes.
So this term for wanting I’ve coined refers to a form
Of the past which continues, in which certain fantasy
Figures can be lived with and longed for; Fay Wrays
Held at such distance that even the shortest man
Makes great ape, finally beholding his prize
In his light-stung hand, and enraptured. This love
For what’s lost is ‘Lustalgia.’ It is a yearning which moves
Beyond death and aging. It is the desirous learning
That no prison within grants escape. One can fall in love
With a face, or with the idea of a person. For men,
It is then the body, for women, I can only hope, its the mind.
This strange location. This muse, mixing sex and love
With the music that is the true soul or something
That we as yet can’t define. That beat without sound,
That slow but steady need which keeps searching
Across luck, fame and distance for the canary or gold
In the mine. Scratch at the coal-face and feel
Love’s true features unearthing. While in your dream
You’re re-birthing a world in which this lost loving
Seduces those who inspire, as you trace such sweet
Shadows and place your eager kiss across time.
David Erdos 17/2/23
.
Jane Seymour – still astonishingly captivating
Comment by kendal on 18 February, 2023 at 8:58 am