Pavement Artist Poem by Mary Spain
Pavement Artist
I watch the workman place the paving stone
And, with a craftsman's dextrous care, smooth fine
The ridges of cement which blur the line
Between the butting slabs. These hands have grown
To calloused prime in mastering their known
Accomplishment. Perhaps they coud design
And execute mosaic, yet resign
Themselves imassively to what alone
Is needed for a busy London street:
A pavement artist to maintain the way
And cater for the heedless passing feet.
The chic shop windows offer their array
Of stylish artistry; yet none compete
With what the simple paving stones display.
The unnoticed skill of the craftsman. Each paving slab chosen and placed so gently. Never given the credibility or status of art. Always consigned to the mundane, commonplace walkways of life. To be forever trodden underfoot. A wonderful metaphor for the daily, selfless, unrecognised acts that fill the lives of those who tread so carelessly over the dextrously smoothed cement laid down to ease our paths through life.
when we analyze, there are so many people who directly or indirectly appear in to our lives. everybody cries for independence but they live only with interdependence...
Mary you have the poet's way of bringing the simple and unsung to the front of the reader's mind. An excellent piee of craftsmanship. From Fay.
This is the sign of a true poet. The tenderness and the appreciation for a labour is great. That you have shaped it into a work such as this is a wonderful achievement. I wish there were more with such attention to detail on this site.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
5/9/2024 12:40:51 PM # 1.0.0.1119
this is now the fifth well-crafted sonnet i've read by you, mary—i'm impressed by your skill. and in this poem i like who and what you recognize. a parallel for me is browsing an art gallery and thinking that human beings who are doing it with me display much greater artistry. perhaps you're familiar with the lines from walt whitman, the narrowest hinge of my hand puts to scorn all machinery and a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. -glen