And began to sculpt a perfect woman.

So he watched his hands shaping a woman

As if he were still asleep. Until

Life-size, ivory, as if alive

Her perfect figure lay in his studio.

So he had made a woman

Lovelier than any living woman.

And when he gazed at her

As if coming awake he fell in love.

His own art amazed him, she was so real.

She might have moved, he thought,

Only her modesty

Her sole garment – invisible,

Woven from the fabric of his dream –

Held her as if slightly ashamed

Of stepping into life.

Then his love

For this woman so palpably a woman

Became his life.

Incessantly now

He caressed her,

Searching for the warmth of living flesh,

His finger-tip whorls filtering out

Every feel of mere ivory.

He kissed her, closing his eyes

To divine an answering kiss of life

In her perfect lips.

And he would not believe

They were after all only ivory.

He spoke to her, he stroked her

Lightly to feel her living aura

Soft as down over her whiteness.

His fingers gripped her hard

To feel flesh yield under the pressure

That half wanted to bruise her

Into a proof of life, and half did not

Want to hurt or mar or least of all

Find her the solid ivory he had made her.

He flattered her.

He brought her love-gifts, knick-knacks,

Speckled shells, gem pebbles,

Little rainbow birds in pretty cages,

Flowers, pendants, drops of amber.

He dressed her

In the fashion of the moment,

Set costly rings on her gold fingers,

Hung pearls in her ears, coiled ropes of pearl

To drape her ivory breasts.

Did any of all this add to her beauty?

Gazing at her adorned, his head ached.

But then he stripped everything off her

And his brain swam, his eyes

Dazzled to contemplate

The greater beauty of her naked beauty.

He laid her on his couch,

Bedded her in pillows

And soft sumptuous weaves of Tyrian purple

As if she might delight in the luxury.

Then, lying beside her, he embraced her

And whispered in her ear every endearment.

The day came

For the festival of Venus – an uproar

Of processions through all Cyprus.

Snowy heifers, horns gilded, kneeled

Under the axe, at the altars.

Pygmalion had completed his offerings.

And now he prayed, watching the smoke

Of the incense hump shapelessly upwards.

He hardly dared to think

What he truly wanted

As he formed the words: ‘O Venus,

You gods have power

To give whatever you please. O Venus

Send me a wife. And let her resemble –’

He was afraid

To ask for his ivory woman’s very self –

‘Let her resemble

The woman I have carved in ivory.’

Venus was listening

To a million murmurs over the whole island.

She swirled in the uplift of incense

Like a great fish suddenly bulging

into a tide-freshened pool.

She heard every word

Pygmalion had not dared to pronounce.