Our Father

I

On a hint from Bertolucci
Passed from you, mother, to the custody
Of another, and that other, though a Muse
Acerbic, limited, can I think I am
Worth your nine months' indignity and labour?
The Muse you may have vowed me to was not
The one I find I'm serving. In the clear
Service of dream you come to me, forgiving
Although unsmiling:
'Look, your father's here.'

II
 
On another
'venne il padre'
He is the delineator, here he comes,
Diffident porter of the primal hues
To the palette of his endowed but ailing
...