So...I found this notebook I completely forgot about....and apparently October of 2005 was a very poetical month. ;) Thus, here is another poem from way back...and it's still rough, but the basic concept and story I was sketching out is there. I hope you enjoy.
Michelangelo’s Marble
My existence
has been a
fixed state
of permanent Is.
Eons of time have passed,
and yet a –moment —only.
Without I am cool & firm
an appealing exterior
I have weight & body
Yet one day, a passerby’s
hand selects me
from the lot of
“drab slabs”, words I over hear from one,
While another excitedly whispers
about my beauty, my worth
Into His hands
I am carried, lifted from
my dreary surroundings
of other stones and muck.
I am cleaned and placed
upon a pedestal.
Oh! My life will be of ease
and appreciation, surely.
Now all will see…
KAAAAhhhhhRRRRAAACCCCCKKK
Without quite knowing from
where, or how, or why
I suddenly feel this
Fissure
and the painful split
a Gouge
and OH! the Throb from---
WHACK
I shore up, I resist, yet
Pieces crumble, fall,
cascading away
I’m caught between
pain and outrage.
Who are these rough hewn hands
that assault
Who presume the right
to destroy
Who whittle away
my opposition, my composition
CHISEL SCRAPE
the hammer moves
and I feel
the WALLOW
the BLOW
the BANG & BUMP
bashed and broken
pieces of my once stone state
coat the ground, hang suspended in the very air
unsure where to settle—departed, cut off
now only a fine perspiring sheen,
my dust, gloves the hands
hides the hammer.
Cool breeze wafts through the air,
slicing through a new cleft,
and for a moment there is my voice,
my mourning cry.
FRACTURE
from a distance
I hear this rumble
of whispered words
mutterings of form
of the genius of my faint silhouette forming,
Then the voice of the Sculptor
firmly stating He hears me, indeed,
heard me crying to be freed.
Sand and dust swirl together—time blurs.
Secluded with the Sculptor,
now, I cleave to His vision,
as my narcissism--banked, silent,
leaving behind a deep response within
still struggling to form
NOTCH
hunks, and layers litter the floor,
and are swept away…
leaving me only knowing
I’m not all undone.
Compliantly I present all I am,
all that remains,
to these Scarred hands
holding both me and the moment
tools of transformation—
INCISE
a death exists
a gap larger
than any crevice
looming between
my abilities &
His raw power
I try and compensate
do my share
SNAP
A flaw appears,
a score
and I shudder within
impatient & without Perfection
The Master carries on
ETCH
A fervor
of motion and movement
surround us
I’m no longer comfortable
with a life of leisure
and an egocentric world
I reminisce in silence of grain & texture
Michelangelo’s Marble
My existence
has been a
fixed state
of permanent Is.
Eons of time have passed,
and yet a –moment —only.
Without I am cool & firm
an appealing exterior
I have weight & body
Yet one day, a passerby’s
hand selects me
from the lot of
“drab slabs”, words I over hear from one,
While another excitedly whispers
about my beauty, my worth
Into His hands
I am carried, lifted from
my dreary surroundings
of other stones and muck.
I am cleaned and placed
upon a pedestal.
Oh! My life will be of ease
and appreciation, surely.
Now all will see…
KAAAAhhhhhRRRRAAACCCCCKKK
Without quite knowing from
where, or how, or why
I suddenly feel this
Fissure
and the painful split
a Gouge
and OH! the Throb from---
WHACK
I shore up, I resist, yet
Pieces crumble, fall,
cascading away
I’m caught between
pain and outrage.
Who are these rough hewn hands
that assault
Who presume the right
to destroy
Who whittle away
my opposition, my composition
CHISEL SCRAPE
the hammer moves
and I feel
the WALLOW
the BLOW
the BANG & BUMP
bashed and broken
pieces of my once stone state
coat the ground, hang suspended in the very air
unsure where to settle—departed, cut off
now only a fine perspiring sheen,
my dust, gloves the hands
hides the hammer.
Cool breeze wafts through the air,
slicing through a new cleft,
and for a moment there is my voice,
my mourning cry.
FRACTURE
from a distance
I hear this rumble
of whispered words
mutterings of form
of the genius of my faint silhouette forming,
Then the voice of the Sculptor
firmly stating He hears me, indeed,
heard me crying to be freed.
Sand and dust swirl together—time blurs.
Secluded with the Sculptor,
now, I cleave to His vision,
as my narcissism--banked, silent,
leaving behind a deep response within
still struggling to form
NOTCH
hunks, and layers litter the floor,
and are swept away…
leaving me only knowing
I’m not all undone.
Compliantly I present all I am,
all that remains,
to these Scarred hands
holding both me and the moment
tools of transformation—
INCISE
a death exists
a gap larger
than any crevice
looming between
my abilities &
His raw power
I try and compensate
do my share
SNAP
A flaw appears,
a score
and I shudder within
impatient & without Perfection
The Master carries on
ETCH
A fervor
of motion and movement
surround us
I’m no longer comfortable
with a life of leisure
and an egocentric world
I reminisce in silence of grain & texture
in an unfolding transformation
of inscribed chiseling.
of inscribed chiseling.
RASP
A cloth drops in a puddle at my pedestal
A cloth drops in a puddle at my pedestal
Quietude descends, as a hush
reverberates across my waxen patina
an awe pervades
I clamor to reveal
The Man—
who saw within, full fragments, a solid mass…
who wrestled a reluctant me, separate and entombed…
fragmented slivering refinement…
to present me, now, a new creation
taking complexity, history, a story, and a light
melding together
what no one else could see…
now Displayed.
~Kelly B
10/13/2005
reverberates across my waxen patina
an awe pervades
I clamor to reveal
The Man—
who saw within, full fragments, a solid mass…
who wrestled a reluctant me, separate and entombed…
fragmented slivering refinement…
to present me, now, a new creation
taking complexity, history, a story, and a light
melding together
what no one else could see…
now Displayed.
~Kelly B
10/13/2005
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