February 3: Obsession, Nin Andrews, "Ode to Helga"

Most people have seen an Andrew Wyeth painting from his Helga years.  Some of you might know the story of how Wyeth painted Helga for over 15 years, hiding the work from his wife, children, the rest of the world.  Helga was his muse, although I don't think he had a sexual relationship with her, despite the overt sensuality of the paintings.

I think Andrew Wyeth was in love with Helga's hair and skin and eyes and fingernails and teeth.  Just like I am writing poems right now about Bigfoot, Wyeth was obsessed with the Helga-ness of Helga, if that makes sense. 

I appreciate artistic obsession.  I, myself, indulge in obsession from time-to-time.  That's what artists and writers do.  They obsess.

Saint Marty is thankful for the obsessions in his life.

Ode to Helga

by:  Nin Andrews

No, I am not one of those men who falls in love with another man's wife.  Not even your lovely wife, Helga, and all the lovely parts of Helga.  And I don't just mean her flame red hair, her perfect breasts, exposed so nicely in the transparent silk blouse, or her full legs in black pantyhose, or her buttocks as round as two sugar-melons side by side, or that little mole at the base of her spine and the other one on the inside of her left thigh.

Or that little gap between her teeth I see when she opens her mouth, or those words that fly off her tongue like birds, and the ones she swallows back and does not speak, those tiny words, those ah's and oh's, and the pauses and the soft no's.  So many no's.

She sighs, pretending to resist, and the I'm so tired's when she turns her back before stretching out like a cat and saying Yes, oh yes! as she clings as if she's drowning as she gasps for air and calls out, Oh God!  God!  God!!  And he answers.  He answers as only God can.