An Artists’ Baptism
I
The fresh, unblemished smell
In a ream of blank paper;
Fanning the pages.
A primed, white-washed,
Mounted canvas.
The sculptor’s delivery
In a square block of Venetian marble.
Or a freshly, fallen snow
Just before your child’s first foot fall.
All are Sacraments of Baptism:
To wash away our wrongs,
And attempt, again, to start anew…
II
For as long as the Artist’s hand is still raised,
The world is still a dream, in which
A plethora of all possibility exists.
But, with the fall of axe against chisel,
The artist’s vision is chosen,
And the world is both made flesh and finite.
11.14.08 John Tansey
Copyright ©2008 John Thomas Tansey
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem