The Sculptor
He hates darkness. Light becomes essential.His demand for well-lit space is legendary.
Holding the lump of clay he kneads, caresses,
strokes it alive, turning an amorphous world
into a globe. With iron callipers he measures
from the top of the head to the tip of the beard.
How fast he adds substance with every new
handful of clay! Each time he works in more vision,
devotes himself to a more accurate measurement,
nose to back of head, ear to ear, from the top
of the back down to the nape of the neck.
With hawk-like swoops he raises ridges for eyebrows .
Under his fingers a valley forms for the mouth,
a nose lifts like a hill, a profile begins shaping
in his image. Each measure of his gaze leads
his hands further to balance the fragile borderline
between too little and too much, between too shallow
and too deep. All his senses are driving his inner solutions.
He has no time for feelings, yet he smiles when he cuts
the head with a wire. How well he knows what he is doing.
By touching, smoothing frantically as if competing with time,
he sucks in life forms, breath by breath. He fills himself
to the brim with all the faces at once. Letting go he stands,
still in doubt, whether or not he saw that it was good.
Poetry by Scharlie Meeuws
Read 583 times
Written on 2006-06-10 at 18:51
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