Short Sculptors Poems

I am artificial
muddled by the thick wet clay
and I can’t feel my heartbeat
through the sculptors hands...

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Poets speak in ink,
Musicians speak with music;
Artists speak through dappled paint.

Sculptors speak in stone,
Actors speak in their actions:
While everyone else...listens....

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Soft pliable clay, peels away with tools touch; cold and wet.
The sculptors’ eye sees life in the clay before, it reveals itself.
Scrape away the excess baggage and a new beauty is born.

...

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Hope may wane
and wishes fade
but art forever keeps
Dawn till dusk
till dawn again
incessance buried deep
Sculptors sculpt
and painters paint
as writers seize the day
Creation’s bridge
 its toll insures 
—tomorrow’s yesterday

(The New Room: September, 2023)...

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The sculptor’s pen writes my pain
Etched words flow in my veins
I writhe inside- distorted  
I am controlled 
Not by what I want
But by a vision 
Perceived
Inside
The 
Sculptors
Mind
Upon the 
Floor
discarded
Scattered
Askew
His
Ideas
Control
What
I do
 
 ©? Brenda V Northeast   13th January 2012...

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some where- stygian transgressions are
carved into impervious hillsides-
fossilized relics, their
meanings yet undeciphered-
blistered fingered sculptors
gifted  with 
quixotic acumen, chant
mystical word songs -
translucent echos dance around
opaque distant moons-
images rise- phenoix eyed vigilant
reminders-
of a time gone, but not forgotten

cm brady  2007...

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She says nice
But I know better;
Like ice sculptors
I shape words
Out of the rough
Like out of the blue
From me to her;
Watch it all
Take form
Right before
Her very eyes;
Like sandcastles
And graffiti murals,
But unlike those,
My art will never melt,
Will never fade,
Will never get washed
Away with the next tide
If this was a pen
It would glide on paper
Smooth like
The curves on her......

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Sculptors carve their rocks,
With very sharp-bladed tools;
They free the art from the stone.

At many concerts are people stoned;
They come to hear great rock;
Musical instruments are rockers tools.

With their trade’s tools;
The Rolling Stones,
Never fail to please with their rock.

If you carve rock with your tools; beware sharp ones if you’re stoned!

...

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the arts-ian munywe
i am longing for the day,
the arts will pay.
it is long overdue,
appreciation is due.
i visualize sculptors,
being accorded an audience.
i envision musicians,
being lent many ears.
i see the poets and writers,
receiving thunderous ovations.
i feel rapturuous applauses,
being extended to dancers.
i imagine all the awe,
that painters will experience.
actors too will reap,
more than they had sown.
i am longing for the day,
the arts will pay....

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Suns setting, stardust falling
Dawn rising, Skylarks calling
Flowers dance of different hue
But nought to compare with you

Painters paint, poets write
Sculptors work marble white
See things with eyes so true
But nought to compare with you

Natures kind, untold gifts
Discards grey, colour lifts
Seas of green, skies blue
But nought to compare with you

And when I wake at your side
From those dreams I did ride
Places visited seemed so true
But nought to compare with you...

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Burnt-out myths in the old city
are stitching the lips of people.
Pink walls smell like blood.

Priest is dumb, hoisting the headless
deity on throne. Marigolds
are soaked in flowing tears.

Innocent wheels riding against blast,
stand still to measure
the half-life of seizures.

Cult was spreading in place,
fingers and cells Dynasties inheriting
the bleached fathers.

The ages rot under the sculptors.
We walk on water, wordless, sightless
for the thin hope.


SATISH VERMA...

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