Sculpture Poem by Michael Maxwell Steer

Here is neither land nor sea, but a light‑
brushed strand of exceptional clarity,
beyond time and gravity, where birds of insight
come unbidden to one's hand in dazzling white.

In the silent hours a shape could be anything:
turning the stone slowly a hole appears.
within the stern shoulder a polished ridge,
but still mcaning...less, evoking fear.

What seems inevitable in a museum
unfolds full of a tense anxiety,
the stone forms in a plastic silence,
its very core surging with anarchy.

We chip away at life, try to make sense.
With each new start we hope to make the stone
as good as the shape in our imagination,
ending each failure more alone.

Oh how can anyone understand what we planned?
The feelins so subtle that come out futile
yet here in this space you know how forms must grow ‑
to make this dream come true, you must watch not do.

So each one composes, in love, privately;
yet the personal and banal, by some alchemy
can mutate into public property ‑
the struggle for meaning a bizarre lottery.

Step thru the door from the busy street
into a cool oasis of green and white
where once a sculptor lived, spilt coffee,
brought up three kids, was burnt alive.


Visiting Barbara Hepworth's house-museum, St Ives.28/2/1999
Subsequently set to music for soprano, string quartet and percussion.