Dr Golnoosh Nour reads ‘A Peacock is a Poem: After Aubrey Beardsley’:
A silver platter embroidered with gold
ashes. A poem is not a poem if it doesn’t
weep gilded decadence. A poem is not a poem
if it doesn’t look like a slender boy in a peacock
skirt. It is not a poem if the boy does not claim
to be Venus. It is not a poem if Venus does not
stay awake until dawn, coiffing her hair. It is not a
poem if Venus does not behead religion.
It is a ballad when religion bleeds obsidian stones
It is an epic when religion apologises and Venus
spanks it with her diamond whip. Religion writhes in blood,
asking for more. But our boy, Venus gets bored.
She takes off her peacock skirt, displaying her crystal
penis. Religion gets aroused, excited even, but Venus
throws his severed head in her golden bin, alongside a few saints
and prophets, who are all pleading, bleeding, in vain.
A poem is only a poem if it’s a naked woman seeking
Lovers. A poem is only a poem if it’s a many breasted dragon
Her breasts covered with crimson damask, and strewn with
gay flowers; irises, columbines, carnations.
A poem is only a poem if it’s a decadent diamond
It is not a poem if it doesn’t wear a peacock skirt
It is not a poem if it does not display a silver tray of
Sex and the grotesque.
A poem is not a poem if it doesn’t destroy itself
A poem is not a poem if it’s not irrelevant, useless beauty, like sculpted marbles
A poem is only a poem if it’s an ivory piece
A poem is not a poem if it doesn’t tease
with the memory of a grotesque
dream – or a charming nightmare. A poem is not a poem if it’s not
a curious tale. A poem is not a poem if not written in uncertainty.
A poem is a sonnet if it crushes iambic pentameters.
A poem is an elegy if it celebrates decadence
It is a sestina if it knows the dance of the seven veils
It is an ode if it mocks its object of desire.
A poem is a poem if it writes letters to its critics
patronising them to tears.
A poem is only a poem if it escapes the injustice of juries and
the shuffling of dealers. A poem is not a poem if it claims
Shakespeare for its favourite poet, Beethoven for its favourite
composer, and Raphael for its favourite painter.
A poem is only a poem if it doesn’t confess.
A poem is a true poem if it’s a mad woman beheading prophets.
A poem is a poem if it’s a valiant warrior, wrapped
in peacock feathers.
P.S.: ‘A Peacock Is a Poem: After Aubrey Beardsley’ has become part of Rocksong, published by Verve Poetry Press in October 2021.