PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

And then God created women, in awe of her spellbinding beauty, enchanting

beyond resplendency, luster and brilliance befitting the crown jewels of

royal, majestic sovereignty. A novelist of mystery, as exemplified in the

face of Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa. Although sometimes bewitching in

literature, we subject her, urging she submit to The Taming of the Shrew,

and warning that for her to act on Lysistrata by Aristophanes, will turn men

into a Marquis de Sade. If she commits adultery like Hester Prynne, we always

humiliate her. Else we have her murder herself like Anna Karenina and Madame

Bovary. We sometimes lock her up in A Doll's House the way Ibsen did, or we

bid her a life of celibacy saying "Get thee to a nunnery," as Shakespeare

has Hamlet tell Ophelia. But then, she is always our Cleopatra, our fairy

tales like Alice in Wonderland, Cinderella, and Little Red Riding Hood

we chase after like the Big Bad Wolf. She is Dante's Beatrice who guides

us through hell and paradise, and we are the Giovanni Casanovas of her life.

She is a commanding sculpturesque, a paragon of a model in our Venus de Milo

at the Louvre, commiseration in The Pieta from Michelangelo, the Madonna's of

Raphael hanging in the Sistine Chapel, and the icons of Notre Dame. She is the

poser if our finest art. When Rodin formed the Thinker, surely he was lost in

contemplation of a woman. Great canvas masters like Renoir bathed her, Rubens

made her voluptuous, and Monet shocked everyone with a Luncheon on the Grass

with her in the nude. Botticelli put her on a half-shell in the Birth of

Aphrodite. Degas made her into a ballerina, while Paul Gauguin gave her color

on the islands of Tahiti. She is every man's mosaic of pulchritude, the music

of angels playing harps, the Stradivarius of violins, and Bolshoi with the Swan

Lake movements by Tchaikovsky. Our Cavalier of Roses by Strauss transformed

into the soprano of our affection in operas like Carmen, or Madame Butterfly by

Puccini. She has been the envy of every conductor, teacher, composer, poet, and

performer. A king built the Taj Mahal in her honor, because as Mozart might say,

she is the player of our Magic Flute.

We write her into our best symphonies by Beethoven, Brahms, Mahler, and

Hayden. She is Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin. Always a classic movie with

Garbo, Hepburn, or Marilyn Monroe. She is our Shirley Temple, the Ginger Rogers

of dance, and when she turns to tragedy like Sarah Bernhardt, we roll her like a

wisp, cart her off to Casablanca in Morocco, and order her dinner  by candlelight

next to Bergman and Bogart. She is our Lady Diana and Princess Grace. Yet, often

how she torments us. She is the rage of Van Gogh in Starry Night, and the abstract

art of Picasso. She seduces us like Delilah and Giuseppe Verdi's Aida. We become

ambivalent when she asserts her independence like Calamity Jane. We also refuse

to spend money with Susan B. Anthony's picture on it. We want her only as a

painting by Mary Cassatt, the mother of our children. Oh, but how often men do

trick her like Figaro in the Barber of Seville. Still, we cherish her, forever loving

she will be our Queen of the Night, our Statue of Liberty, and best of all, when

our egos swell up, our Nutcracker.