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Ellinore Ginn © Copyright 1950

Stone axe and iron knife,
Milk for the blind and the solitary snake,
Rock pillars black with drying blood of bulls,
Behind the torches everything is dark.

These small feet bound in gold,
Have worn a track that glints beneath the flame,
My lips have marked the five-holed silver pipe,
The temple snake comes when I sing his name.

The paint cracks on my face,
White in the sun upon the day of bulls,
I see the womb that made me in the crowd,
She sees the sacred robe, the gilt, the jewels.

If he will follow me,
The blood he spills will sanctify his own.

Behind the slaughtered son of gods,
I see myself impaled upon the white bull's horn.

Waves sigh against the rock,
The rising of a God is born in death,
Blood on the iron knife, the horn, my thighs,
Sorrow and pain, and I will show the path.
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The Studio
Ellinore Ginn © Copyright 1950

The great white silence envelopes me,
I walk and circle in the room.
I leap and dance. I am free.
It is my studio - my tomb.

Sing the Ave Verum dears
I am a child with paints.
My joy is complete in tears.
You - you are the saints.

Who understand this love
Like a costume adorning.
Sweet mystic dove,
It is Easter - it is morning.

I run through the room. This is WINE.
The marble floors are cold.
Muted colour and strong, you are mine,
Possess my dreams - make me bold.

I walk and circle in the room
I paint and dance - I am free.
It is my studio - my tomb.
The great white silence envelops me.
Ellinore Ginn © Copyright 1950

Step forth from stone, O King, and press
Your hand in carved relief
Upon my head.......your dress
And jewels in rock, O Chief
Stir deep, this mortal being
Contented not with tawdry things.

Great Aztec eyes - 'All seeing'
See well, I crave the rings
Of Gold and ancient cultures
Step forth from stone, O King annoint
With blood of vultures
My native head........with Love appoint
Me now.........your brother.

I touch your eyes in crusted lime
To me there are no other
Than the blues and greens of time
Rubbed in Peruvian stone,
Worn into your face.
You are my King. You are not alone.
I am of your race.

Brother, take me to the highest ridges
The mighty Andes top
Great white-faced King, there are no bridges
Of time between us.....we drop
To stones, where Llama and goats
Slain by High Priests
Lie in silence with pierced throats.

Stand still O King the feasts
are over......The Sun God
And the vulture is appeased
I kiss your stony feet........the sod.
My dreams and tremors eased.
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Ellinore Ginn © Copyright 1950

Yes, I know the Artist's Life
That bursts in mighty hues.
I catch warm pigments on my knife
And iridescent blues.

I see the reds and browns in clay
Burnt umber in the soil
Pale Indian yellow in the hay
A perfect noonday foil.

To charcoal grey of heavy eaves;
And I am soon aware
That underneath the clustered leaves
Earth greens are lurking there.
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