Best Sculptor Poems
The wood was perfect.
Hammer in hand, he toiled.
Sweat trickled down his neck.
Her face was chiselled,
A perfect portrait:
The hawk-like nose,
The high cheekbones,
The wide brow.
But not her flaring eyes.
They defied him.
In exasperation, he threw the lamp,
His only source of light,
And watched the wood burn.
In the deserted cabin.
In a wooded glen forlorn,
When the fire subsided
They found his body
Long dead, carbonised and cold.
And a piece of chiselled wood
Charred and worthless.
originally written in 10/4/2016
Time and events chisel and shape our lives,
an unknown sculptor blue prints your life plan,
a knock here, a cut there, we think ‘not fair’
we journey along through ridges and lairs,
rewards flow in that we relish and cheer,
count our gains in terms of money we earn,
real reward is that we don’t understand,
the gift of wisdom that comes with failures,
the gift of forbearance that comes with grief,
the gift of love that comes with family,
the gift of happiness comes from sharing,
the gift of compassion helps us wipe tears!
from end of life we look back to admire,
the road map of our journey now much clear,
brothers, sisters with parents and teachers,
have guided my life to what it matters,
enemies who threw at me their arrows,
helped me strengthen to counter my sorrows,
every defeat made me that much smarter,
thanks to many foes for playing their part,
If my life had been happy and easy,
I would have ended up a useless slob!
2nd placement
‘It is a part of me’ Poetry contest!
Silent One
Written 15/11/2020
10 syllables each line
rhyme not intended!
22 lines
molding
every word
with bare
hands
putting
pressure
on every
letter with
thumbs
that have
their own
minds
shaping
vowels of
verbs from
action to
possessive
and never
using periods
to keep
the
viewer
always
looking
Glacier! Icy, cold,
hard. Diamond-like, it chisels
the frosty landscape.
I feel Him chip away at my flesh.
The vibrations shake to my bones.
Pieces that were once part of me now fall helplessly to the floor.
Every scrape of the chisel,
Every pound of the hammer,
Every piece that is broken from me stings with immense pain.
Why doesn't He stop?
Why is The Sculptor so cruel?
Doesn't He realize that each swing He takes is a nightmare to me?
I would be better off as stone that was never touched,
I would be more content without the suffering that comes apon me,
But I wouldn't be a work of art.
Each chip of the chisel is intended to remove a piece that shouldn't be there.
Each pound of the hammer is meant to force the hideous fragments far from me.
Each move The Sculptor makes, takes me closer to His plan for me.
I must trust, knowing that He never takes off too much.
I must be ready, knowing that He never leaves His work incomplete.
I must be thankful, knowing that I am being made beautiful in His eyes.
The acute pain is only a short part of His plan.
The lasting anguish fades in its own time.
Though heart, and soul, and body all grieve, the permanent state will be that of finished work.
I may not know the reason for each strike,
I may not know the fault with each sundered chunk,
And I may never know.
I know the sting of the chisel now,
I know The Sculptor has a plan,
My part is to trust that He will not work forever ... but that He will be done.
You have the hands of a sculptor
I am malleable clay ~
Shape me, body and soul
Mold my senses ~ sculpt my heart
Where your fingers touch me ~
I am a candle, melted by your flame
the artist stills it's muse –pristine hands
19 Feb 2016
monoku 7
O
natives
who
keep
alive is
observing
yes strict the commandments
engraving
chiseling
carving
stirring
ahead
laded
twixt
slay
and
mi
I
* Anyone interested can go to google and ask
to see photos of Egyptian curved knives and
you shall find this one within. It is shape so my
friends..I do hope that you enjoy....mi
P.S. the pharaohs commanded the slaves to
carve or they would meet the above
P.P.S. Please take notice of the, "y" on the
seventh stanza..on my Micro word it was
emphatically the curve to the "y" to give
the authentic dagger look...unlike here on
the Poetry Soup....lol
I can build a new personality, like a sculptor shaping the clay of life,
But I feel the gaze of who I once was, watching me from the shadow of memories,
I try to bury her, but my hands weaken when digging deep into the past,
And I cannot burn her, for the flames would leave scars on my fragile soul.
She clings to me like a ghost that refuses to leave, whispering all I want to forget,
So I carry her with me, an echo of my steps, a weight that does not dissipate,
Dragging her along on every journey, until she finds nowhere else to fly,
And she sinks deep into me, like a river flowing through the cracks of my new self.
I try to become something more, to embrace my future with open arms,
But she settles in my fissures, a silent resident in the heart of change,
And in this struggle between who I was and who I want to become, I dance on a thin line,
Trying to find balance between the shadow of the past and the light of the coming day.
Perhaps, in time, I will learn to accept her, to integrate her as part of me,
To build a strong foundation from fragments of the old and the new,
And thus, to bloom like a flower finding its roots in the soil of wholeness,
In a dance of transformation, an endless poem of my becoming.
they
say
that
life
is
but
a
shadow-
play,
and
we
mere
lines,
picked
out
by
the
light
of
day
Midday sun burns.
An iron chisel plays
sad tunes on a stone.
He enjoys prolonged
chiseling.
The granite conceives
from his tool-point,
giving birth to a god,
who will be plagued
in a prayer hall, with
endless demands, by
someone as his spouse.
Though no narcissistic
admiration, his
sculptures are marvelous.
Creativity is the sperm
of beauty, growing in
mind’s womb.
He lights a candle at night.
While warming his palms
over the flame, red hue
reminds him of an old
bloodshed over his god.
A sculptor is never a culprit
behind a communal clash, yet
musing moths swarm his mind.
First published in The Literary Hatchet, then reprinted in Barking Sycamore, US.
Chisel in my hand
searching out life in your curves -
A die hard spirit
reshaping the uneven
to unfold the Saga
(C) Anindya Mohan Tagore (Bobby)
the angel on the mantel
comes from an old wagon road
that cuts from desert brush
into the burnished hills
where creosote breaks up and scatters
at the base of the Chiricahuas
where Fort Bowie Calvary slaughtered
Apache braves
where an old cancerous man treks
miles of primitive trail
into the heart of a sacred mountain
for pure white marble, cut into blocks
and stacked
one hundred years ago
to wait for a truck that never came
it's an arduous journey
for a piece of rock
especially
for a man
half-blinded as a little boy
by that first nuclear blast
in that sneak attack on New Mexico
arduous
for a man riddled with cancer
who could be spending his days
easier
"what behooves you to do it?"
"it's something to do while I'm here," he says
"we all need something to do while we're here
even if you're sitting on your couch, watching t.v.
eating potato chips
it's something to do
this is what I enjoy, so this is what I do"
he finds his chunk of marble
it tells him what it's supposed to be
he sculpts the figure
as he sees it
roughly
and really not rough at all
for he feels
more than he sees
and you feel
what he sees
angel on the mantel
do you feel me
Midday sun burns.
An iron chisel plays
sad tunes on a stone.
He enjoys prolonged
chiseling.
The granite conceives
from his tool-point,
giving birth to a god,
who will be plagued
in a prayer hall, with
endless demands, by
someone as his spouse.
Though no narcissistic
admiration, his
sculptures are marvelous.
Creativity is the sperm
of beauty, growing in
mind’s womb.
He lights a candle at night.
While warming his palms
over the flame, red hue
reminds him of an old
bloodshed over his god.
A sculptor is never a culprit
behind a communal clash, yet
musing moths swarm his mind.
First published in The Literary Hatchet
Master Sculptor, God Divine,
Chisel upon this life of mine.
Strike each blow with artisan care,
Until the shape of Christ appears.