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	<title>John Foulcher</title>
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		<title>Auguste Rodin at the Gates of Hell</title>
		<link>http://johnfoulcher.com/auguste-rodin-at-the-gates-of-hell/</link>
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		<pubDate>Mon, 15 Aug 2011 13:08:24 +0000</pubDate>
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				<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[It is not as I had imagined.<br />
Where are the souls, or their absence,<br />
the cabaret of flesh, crouching and falling and writhing?<br />
It was a lifetime, my<em> Gates of Hell,<br />
</em>perhaps the only purpose<br />&#8230; <a href="http://johnfoulcher.com/auguste-rodin-at-the-gates-of-hell/" class="read_more">Read more</a>]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>It is not as I had imagined.<br />
Where are the souls, or their absence,<br />
the cabaret of flesh, crouching and falling and writhing?<br />
It was a lifetime, my<em> Gates of Hell,<br />
</em>perhaps the only purpose<br />
I made for myself, though it never grew into its own,<br />
and figures alone in its landscape<br />
took to their separate perdition<br />
with all the requisite sins –<br />
<em>The Thinker</em>, for instance, <em>The Kiss,<br />
</em>coming to life from the flames.<br />
<em>What kind of gates are these?</em> asks the dull Bourdelle,<br />
<em>How do you open them? How do they close?<br />
</em>They close in the mind, Antoine,<br />
the place of greater terror<br />
than anything God could have dreamed.<br />
I carried those gates on my back<br />
as Christ would have hauled his cross,<br />
and bits of their bronze bloodied my hands,<br />
took chunks from my living heart<br />
(though I paused now and then to make lovers,<br />
kneading a creamy marble<br />
more luscious than genuine skin).<br />
But now it has come to this ordinary gate,<br />
its neat and particular iron.<br />
Where is the agony?  Where is the fire?<br />
I have opened so many like this. I had hoped for better from Hell.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>from the forthcoming <em>The Sunset Assumption</em></p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
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