In the Hands of a Sculptor
Puma so graciously reminded me of this poem. I wanted to share it again with all of you.
IN THE HANDS OF A SCULPTOR
(by Deb Abbott)
In the hands of a sculptor, she began to grow
Into the woman she had always known
Lay just beneath the surface of her exterior
Waiting, impatiently, for the touch that would free her.
The first time he saw her, his eyes probed within
Seeing only what was to be and not what had already been.
Gently, he made his way towards her being
Anxious to unveil what he was truly seeing.
Amused, yet delighted, she let him browse within
But, just enough, to let her know he'd come back again.
Respect had already grown between the two, you see,
For one to know, the other to see, was all that needed to be.
Her medium, a little cracked and dried, was not quite ready.
So, she prepared it for him, giving time for his hands to steady.
Then he heard her silent voice whisper from within, "Come to me."
A look of appreciation filled his eyes as he reached out to touch what was yet to be.
She felt his thumb slide down what would be the contour of her face.
And, she was pulled, ever so gently, from a place somewhere beyond time and space.
Yet pliable she allowed herself to be.
Offering for him to find what, as of yet, she could not see.
His hand moved slowly but with a resonant beat
As his fingers dug into her, exposing a gentle heat.
He allowed her to create her own form.
As she came to life unbridled and untorn.
Gently smoothing her rough edges, he began to see
The image in his mind come to be.
The soft gentle merging of the essence of her soul
Spoke of a living story that was yet to be told.
She caught the scent of him that first day when he formed her nose.
She likened the smell to a spring day when the wind gently blows.
She began to hear when his fingers traced out her ears.
His soft rhythmic breathing erased any and all unfelt fears.
As he stroked her with his affection
She found herself releasing all of her defections.
And what became beneath his hands
Was more than either could have ever planned.
As his thumbs pressed out the molds for her eyes
She wept the tears of angels dripping from the skies.
The windows of her soul were to be revealed
Never again would their living waters be concealed.
His touch became especially tender
Wherewith her lips he began to render.
He paused, as if in a trance
As her lips, along his finger, began to dance.
His fingers spread as his hands caressed her cheeks
He felt her energy, so strong and yet so meek.
He felt himself resting his lips upon her own.
And he thought he heard a delightful little moan.
He felt arms encircle him that were not of his creation.
And a body formed out of the haze with perfect animation.
She became then, all that he wanted her to be.
And through his touch, she became more than what she could ever see.
He lifted her gently from her pedestal, twirling her about the room
She giggled ever so lightly just having come from her tomb.
With eternity resting in her eyes, she gave him the vision to truly see,
In the hands of a sculptor, it was his touch that set her free.
In search of light!
Life is Good!
(originally posted May 2, 2002)
Yay to Puma
for jogging your memory and
wow to you Deb for such an awesome piece of writing...simply beautiful !
This sculpted piece of work
Is, Was, and Will Always be
One of my favorite pieces of poetry.
I really enjoyed reading this one and loved the creative concept behind it. I normally am not a poetry reader, but I liked this one a lot! This one is worthy of being published.
Suebee, Edward, Blue Jay
Thank you all so much for your kind words.
This one is my favorite.
And hey, Blue Jay, I'm really honored coming
from someone who doesn't normally read poetry.
I remember it well!
When I think of sculptors-
My first stop on my first trip to Paris
Was the Rodin museum
The Kiss, The Thinker ....
They came alive as I sat there
Wondering how a human being
Filled with doubts and foibles
Could create such beauty....
Now, almost 40 years later,
I am coming closer to knowing
But haven't yet fully understood
That I may never really know.
Thanks Deb for "bringing back" this poem!
Sculpture by my father:
(my parents and myself)
with a candle holder and a place to float
Ah Nori, Nori
When I looked at your father's sculpture, I could feel the love with which he created it. Sometimes when I write, I lose myself and become one with the feelings of the words. And for that time, I become what I am writing.
Thank you, sweet one,
To Cher O, compliments of Puma once again
And the Phoenix once again rises from the ashes.
In The Hands of a Sculptor
Thank you, Deb, for this. It is lovely. I want to read it several times today, then I will tell you more. Now, I am just struck by its beauty and am speechless.:) Love, C.
P.S. A lot of people besides me are very glad you reposted it. Thank you again for all of us....
|All times are GMT -7. The time now is 05:05 AM.|
Powered by: vBulletin Version 3.0.6
Copyright ©2000 - 2013, Jelsoft Enterprises Ltd.