The Sculptor Poem by Abraham Sutzkever

The sculptor says: once upon a time, I had an atelier
In the ear of a needle. But it was roomier
To blow out of the clay faces and muscles
Than here in the old palace — a gift from the king.
On top of that, in that sweet ear,
With no regret,
I settled with a model — Lili or Lilith,
I don't quite remember her name. Just her shining body
Remained stiff in my memory. Just her body.

I swear,
When from the veinous marble
I hewed out, called up her hot breasts —
They spurted buzzing milk.
A sign that a man too is a partner to a birth.

'Music, you breath of statues' — Rilke wrote.
For my sake, I would have turned it around:
Sculptures are the breath of music.
Basalt, granite, and marble are classical music.
The sculptor is the conductor:
He just makes them play.

His chisel and hammer is the baton.
A cut,
A chisel with a cosmic challenge,
And musically, the breath of granite is molded
In the marble orchestra.

But now I am old.
I have a face of basalt.
I need no more raw stone
To pinch out limbs.
It's enough for me to open the shutters at dawn
And white marble of the day fills
My atelier, my quaking ground.

I throw myself upon him and chip off
Pieces of the day.
I want to expose his muscles. Leave just the essence.
The cut-off hours lie mute in a corner.
Till nightfall. Till both fall drunk from the struggle.
And drunk, I hear the tick-tock of drunk atoms.

And again my atelier is in the ear of a needle
With Lili or Lilith — I don't quite remember her name.

1968