Within
Sculpting in a chaotic corner
the parts that don't belong, must go
Free the work, the prisoner within.
As I chisel out the excess
the not-sculpture bits of stone
Like chains they fall away
I step back for a farther look
At form, slowly emerging
Where does it come from?
Monday, 27 July 2020
This is the fourth poem in Les Mots sans Images, a series of original poems.
I post a new poem every waning quarter moon.
Tilt
soften your gaze
looking down
at the sky
if you want to see
into its depths
piercing eyes only glance
off the surface
and will leave you
where you began:
the real world
magic there is impossible
unbelievable:
unreal
tilt your head
just right, though
and drop down
off of that high horse
the one bequeathed to you
the one fed on received opinion
maybe you will meet some
other world unknown
unimaginable
unavailable to you
until you enter frame
This is the fifth pairing in Confluence, a series of poems written in response to original photographs.
I began writing these during the pandemic, using the pictures I was making at the time. I have continued this practice ever since, always writing in response to my most recent images.
I publish a new Confluence every new moon and every time the luminary dyad perfect a trine.