This is the full transcript of a poem on silk written exclusively for Simply Silk by a well know poet David Wansbrough, Sydney, Australia
Silk. Whisper the word slowly so the lips pout,
but not quite kiss. Silk. No other sound
allows the tongue to rhythmically undulate,
until the top of its tip barely touches the front
palette. Silk. A child would laugh with delight
at a silk scarf’s ripple. It reflects and flicks
light all along its shimmering length.
Sages mystically wrote that silk worn
near naked flesh was armour for a soul that is hurt.
It must be so. They said each thread was spun rays
of moon and sun. Implicitly yin and yang.
Imagine an erotic glimpse of pale smooth skin,
enfolded by dark layers, flashing colours.
Such a sight aroused even a jaded Asiatic potentate
to select a concubine and honour her forever
with exotic carved jewel flowers.
A silk scarf over denims or dungarees
evokes an innovator, or perhaps a revolutionary.
The embroidered stole of a Byzantine Empress
empowered her to rule with authority ranks
of scheming eunuchs, and defy ecclesiastics’ anathemas.
A petit Russian Contessa, teasing with just a little décolletage
her muscled officer lovers to stand to attention.
Silk gives dignity, and yet suggests
the mysterious revelation of a sensual secret.
Diaphanous silk reveals the spiritual,
woven through the physical.
Whisper, “Silk”. Such a soft word is a caress –
and hints at its reality. Silk. Slip out of your dress. Let it rustle
as it falls to the floor. And as the illusion of the colours hover, step out of it.
And walk to your lover.
D. Wansbrough Sydney, Australia 2010