The Western Gate

Header image : Adapted from Bathsheba at her Bath : Rembrandt ~1654

Bathsheba At Her Bath : Artemisia Gentileschi ~ 1636

“The golden sun dips low over Yeru Salem ~ the Foundation of Peace, casting long shadows across the palace walls, as it were, betwixt the midday sun and the pitch of night. King David, restless in the hour of evening, paces the rooftop—a place of solitude, yet perilously close to temptation, the fool upon the edge of doom yet also pervading the whole of the kingdom.
Below, unseen by royal eyes, the waters of a bath glisten in the fading light. There, Bathsheba, wife of Uriah the Hittite, performs the ritual cleansing of her purity, unaware that her beauty is soon to catch the gaze of power itself. A moment’s glance, a stolen sight—and the course of a kingdom trembles on the edge of desire. For even a man after God’s own heart is not immune to the spark that ignites ruin…and not by her hand or mind, but by his urge, for here, she is nature, and he that primordial beast of longing.”

i.i
It ‘twas but a fleeting glimpse, a shade
That flitted on the margent of mine sight—
My head, swift-turn’d, did seek the phantom made,
And for one brief span, perchance but slight.

i.ii
There stood she, behind a billowing sheer silk screen,
Where light and shadow in fair combat play’d.
Her own raiment loose did little hide, pleasure!
What nature’s bounty bold and bare convey’d.

i.iii
Her bosom, proud, unyok’d from binding ,
Did press against the throw as wanton grace,
Announce to the world—and my espying—
That naught lay ‘twixt the cloth and skin’s embrace;

i.iv
Save but a breath of some elusive scent,
That hung, like sin, to tempt, torment.


ii.i
Swiftly did horror seize my traitorous heart,
As lust and wonder warred within my muscled chest.
‘Vile voyeur!’ cried my conscience, keen to start
Some moral charge to quell this vile attest.

ii.ii
‘Is this not pity’s due?—to mourn the state
Of man, made thrall to passions base and wild?
That eyes should hunger, and age betray,
For what first suckled us when but a child?

ii.iii
This nature mock us still with wanton schemes,
That we, grown men, should pant like babes anew,
Or perhaps ’tis seen fit blessings that I see,
The host for the seed as yet I have not sown?

ii.iv
Aye, reason raged—yet hotter flush’d my blood,
And any chiding pleas in fire were drown’d.


iii.i
Tantalizing, tease?—was not the virgin sight
That first undid me, nor some new-reveal’d grace.
For I, by chance or fate’s unkindly might,
Have seen her standing bare in time’s embrace—

iii.ii
I Confess when moon did whisper at one night
And she, unawed by modesty’s disguise,
Walk’d as Eve in Eden’s primal light,
All nature’s bounty naked to mine eyes.

iii.iii
Strange alchemy! That cloth’d , she stirs more fire
Than when ungarmented as she were display’d—
Yet! veiled Isis wakes more mad desire
Than a “harlot” bold in market’s shade!

iii.iv
What sorcery lies in concealment’s art,
‘That’ hidden fruit- fuels, and ravish more the heart?”

iv.i
How she sway’d—a fragile vessel, toss’d
By unseen tempests—bearing treasures bold
That heav’d like billows ‘neath her linen’s fold,
As ripe, I tell lasciviously, Pomona’s fruits in autumn frost.

iv.ii
E’en as I saw them once, by moonlight bared—
Those orbs of heav’n, with dusk-halos crown’d,
Their regal sephirot by their weight pull’d down,
Pendulous Shaddai by mortal sight ensnared.

iv.iii
‘Magnificent’? Aye. ‘Succulent’? Be Gone the Devil-mind—
Such gross, sweet terms as babes at teat might sigh,
When hunger gnaws and mothers’ milk runs dry.
Am I but such, all reason drown’d in truth?

iv.iv
A man in form, yet in my spirit’s core,
Still that same wailing babe at Eden’s door.“

v.i
Harlot entangled, for ‘t’was her name.
with pressed avow those hands
to deliver to me the result of dreams unbound
now fixated, obsessed, a tempest due.

v.ii
It is as the flight of man, and every angel fallen
to want, to know, desire, grow;
experience beneath this bound soul,
by senses enraptured, by none but foul.

v.iii
What is it ? Of what desire emanate whence,
that first instant, division, and forever the quest
to reunite, to be as one, that all is none,
In Strength, and Mercy at the breast.

v.iv
Bound am I the cross of suffering alone
The Lions hand , I cry;-
Isis, Apophis, Osiris – Father !
MA! above them all, Ra- Set.

v.v
By Jupiter and Mars, I am that lion, bound beseeching.

vi.i
Maiden of the Seven, Daughter of Sophia.
Has I, this humble soul David seen you,
In those shadows, have you known I watch,
hunger, and I fall before you.

vi.ii
Thou art the Goddess, and I but beast and foul.
Below your breast the womb
to carry the child of heaven, of promise.
Thou art the Gardens tender, steward of sighs

vi.iii
Love in this to me be hidden
as the virgin yonder the veil
And dance so close to eternal flame
I am that, (sic) witch, arte the same.

vi.iv.
And if I, before Bethsheba Stand,
as brightly fiercely as the sun
The moon your bridal gown,
resplendent sure would come.

vi.v
Then Come, Come, and ride this rebel horse.
let us bring this kingdom down.

Bathsheba At Her Bath : Sebastianno Ricci ~ 1720

From the diary of King DaViD

i. It was a momentary glance, a figure at the periphery of vision that moved, my head turning towards the source, and it were perhaps just a second or perhaps two when I espied the figure behind her patio glass conservatory.
She wore a loose fitting t-shirt, and the outline of her breasts clearly unsupported thrusting forward that the contours, immediately known, that she wore underneath her sheaf, nothing more than a touch of perfume.

ii. My first instinct, was to recoil at the rising sense of both lust and excitement, to dismiss the feeling as voyeurism at worst and pity more, that we are slaves to emotions born from want, the sight or hint of nourishment that fed us when we were vulnerable babes. Perhaps, in defence, we see someone fit to nurture and sustain our children, the cruel cognition of desire to reproduce. What ever the reason the sight caused my body to warm and excite.

iii. It were not, however, that I had for the first time seen the sight of my neighbour, nor the desire to unclothe and expose that hidden magnificence, for whatever want of reason we assume it so, for I, have already seen her body, naked even. Unbeknown again once in night she had wandered through that area. It excited me not as much as this scene, in fact the sight of her clothed seemed to suggest more vigour within me.

iv. She walked unsteady, vulnerable yes, her bosom bouncing beneath that oversized garment. They were heavy and voluptuous, even as I remember them when I viewed her naked before. The outer edge of darkened flesh that highlighted the nipples were elongated as if the weight of breast had pulled taught the corona that surrounded each teat. Magnificent, yeah, succulent, and other such gross words that reinforce the notion, this is born from the memories of a weaning child. Am I here, that babe, of want.

King David ~ In the 19th year of my Reign
תַּלְמִיד לְרַבִּים — וְאוּמָן לְאַף אֶחָד
(Talmid l’rabim — v’uman l’af echad)
A disciple of many Masters, yet a craftsman of none.

Bathsheba Observed by King David : Jan Matsys~ c.1540