Here they come!  Hordes from

every part of this new world

erupt through the doors, then

pause, all eyes on me.  Yet

I nearly didn't make it.
The curator wanted an image

of womanhood which would
be timeless.  He was very

drawn to you, Ishtar –

after all, your smile melted men.
And you were that paradox,

virgin and whore which

couldn't fail to please.
He felt your look in battle

astride that lioness

would appeal to feminists
and they'd approve you

needed no male consort,

reigning independent.

I'm pretty impressed too.
But your healing powers

over Pharaoh inspired unease
in a curator who wanted no

connection with disease.
He turned to you, Sophia

Goddess of wisdom
though he was puzzled which

image of you to promote.
The creation one of tree and

flower of life was majestic
but would visitors to the Louvre

understand its symbolism?
A beautiful painting of you

with your three daughters
Faith, Hope and Love grouped

obedient in front, looks
very like the Madonna and

Christians might feel confused
that the child has multiplied.

I was relieved when the curator,

threatened by all this fecundity

looked further afield once more.
He fell in love with my shape

which is considered perfection.
My twisting torso tantalised him

with its sensuality, yet there's
nothing gross about my form.

My raised left leg swathed in
folds of marble hints at movement

marvellous in sculpture.
In earlier days I loved being gaudy,

a painted pagan aglow but
time has brushed me with

a noble pallor fit for a church.
So my sisters Ishtar and Sophia

in the end beauty has won.

Too bad these crowds only

remember me and my name.