Sculpting Poem by Daniel Y.
Sculpting
The freezing breeze
from my icy skin,
bites at your face;
numbs your crumbling fingers.
Your cold touch.
A caressing chisel,
and staccato mallet.
Adding gentle curves, imperceptibly.
They are mine. They are yours.
Your eyes create the dance.
Your numb fingers find pleasure.
Giving form to the formless.
An impression unfolds.
A gestured hand to hide a breast,
An outstretched hand to beckon the rest.
Likewise, I, the creation, am satisfying.
Fulfilled in my purpose.
Reciprocating the love from which I am molded.
Nurturing the imagination.
And melting in the summer heat.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/10/2024 8:08:50 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Hi Daniel I was preparing send you a message about tonight's near crisis when I discovered a poem from Feb. I don't know - SCULPTING - and it's a wonderful poem about the art experience, specifically the making of an art object What gives the poem its charm is that the sculpture still incomplete and in process speaks to us and its (his) voice is genial but authoritative, relaxed but intent on art. Of course, this description fits the sculptor also because the two of them are being imaginatively fused into one artistic consciousness. It's an inspired idea to develop by means of a poem: you the poet are animating inert raw material - the stone - and the metaphor points to the animation of the art of sculpture as well. I'm glad I stopped to watch the artists at work!