The Sculptor Poem by Suzanne Hayasaki

You stand in your studio
Nearly as nude as the figure
You mold from heavy red clay,
Smoothing its surface with strong hands,
Scraping away what you don't see,
Adding what you do and then backing up,
Walking around your crouching god
As it catches the north light
On the right side
Of its aquiline profile.

From where do these visions arise?
Why do you bring them to life?
One after another until you are surrounded
By men with empty eyes?
Do you prefer the company of the blind
To those who might see you as you do?

Here. Take up this brush and paint me.
In all my femininity.
In my frailty.
In my naivety.
In my innocence.

Look into my eyes and forget
What critics have said,
What friends have implied
With their well-meant compliments.

What do you see in my gaze
As I take in the parade
Of better selves you have created
In hopes of leaving behind something heroic?

If you will paint me as I am
In this unflattering light
At this inopportune time
Maybe you will come to see that art
Is about revealing what we least want people to see
Believing that they perceive a beauty that eludes us.