—Poetry by Linda Klein, Los Angeles, CA
—Images Courtesy of Public Domain
THE SCULPTOR
A large block of clay awaited his touch and imagination. It stood on a solid wood pedestal and was covered with damp cloths to keep it supple and to prevent the studio air from drying it.
Ah, the air, a variety of musty, vaporous odors, a treat for his nostrils as he entered the room each morning. The air told of the clay's origins and composition. It brought images of plants, trees, and animals decomposed, and buried deep inside the huge lump of clay.
To the sculptor it was as though there was, in his studio, alive again, a wild forest of long ago, creatures ambling through shrubs and grasses. Behind trees, caches of badgers, beavers, spiraling snakes, foxes and wolves, with their animal scents, co-existing, moving about among the vegetation, consuming it as they went.
He reached inside the moist clay to reveal the scene, first with his hands and fingers, then an arm, and found a baby deer. The deer looked at him curiously, lovingly. Its ears curved as leaves curve. The sculptor caressed its bowed head. With a cutting tool he carefully carved the rest of its graceful body from the dense mound of clay.
Continuing passionately, he dug in deep to find as many forms as he could. He must release them all, bring them back to life again. They were counting on him.
A large block of clay awaited his touch and imagination. It stood on a solid wood pedestal and was covered with damp cloths to keep it supple and to prevent the studio air from drying it.
Ah, the air, a variety of musty, vaporous odors, a treat for his nostrils as he entered the room each morning. The air told of the clay's origins and composition. It brought images of plants, trees, and animals decomposed, and buried deep inside the huge lump of clay.
To the sculptor it was as though there was, in his studio, alive again, a wild forest of long ago, creatures ambling through shrubs and grasses. Behind trees, caches of badgers, beavers, spiraling snakes, foxes and wolves, with their animal scents, co-existing, moving about among the vegetation, consuming it as they went.
He reached inside the moist clay to reveal the scene, first with his hands and fingers, then an arm, and found a baby deer. The deer looked at him curiously, lovingly. Its ears curved as leaves curve. The sculptor caressed its bowed head. With a cutting tool he carefully carved the rest of its graceful body from the dense mound of clay.
Continuing passionately, he dug in deep to find as many forms as he could. He must release them all, bring them back to life again. They were counting on him.
MYSTERY ROAD
I love paintings of roads and paths
positioned diagonally on a canvas,
a wide strip of road in the foreground,
gradually narrowing, drawing me in.
What lies beyond the horizon?
I am compelled to follow the path
and solve the mystery.
There is such excitement in that.
I wonder if the artist knows what I will find,
if, by some magic, I am able to walk his road,
pass the trees and brush alongside,
stumble over rocks, get back up if I fall,
follow the curves and bends,
and finally reach what can't be seen.
Is he the all-knowing god of his painting,
or is it a mystery to him also?
I love paintings of roads and paths
positioned diagonally on a canvas,
a wide strip of road in the foreground,
gradually narrowing, drawing me in.
What lies beyond the horizon?
I am compelled to follow the path
and solve the mystery.
There is such excitement in that.
I wonder if the artist knows what I will find,
if, by some magic, I am able to walk his road,
pass the trees and brush alongside,
stumble over rocks, get back up if I fall,
follow the curves and bends,
and finally reach what can't be seen.
Is he the all-knowing god of his painting,
or is it a mystery to him also?
NO ANSWERS, ONLY QUESTIONS
So much depends upon our wisdom and our strength.
How do we react when violence threatens our way of life?
Do we maintain calm restraint,
or fight till death for what we know is right?
Stand by and watch while the innocent are slaughtered,
or rush to their defense at any and all cost?
Can we still live our lives with such disorder?
Will morality and conscience be forever lost?
Whose bloody, severed head is that, placed upon a skewer,
dripping scarlet rain to soak the ground?
Is someone, somewhere, totaling up the score?
Is there any good solution to be found?
Can we endure having seen his shocked surprise?
What does it mean to tolerate the horror in his eyes?
So much depends upon our wisdom and our strength.
How do we react when violence threatens our way of life?
Do we maintain calm restraint,
or fight till death for what we know is right?
Stand by and watch while the innocent are slaughtered,
or rush to their defense at any and all cost?
Can we still live our lives with such disorder?
Will morality and conscience be forever lost?
Whose bloody, severed head is that, placed upon a skewer,
dripping scarlet rain to soak the ground?
Is someone, somewhere, totaling up the score?
Is there any good solution to be found?
Can we endure having seen his shocked surprise?
What does it mean to tolerate the horror in his eyes?
THE DOVE
Peace is a dove with wings that flutter to the beat of his heart.
How sweetly coos that bird, his message to impart.
Can he cover the entire world as quickly as is needed,
and will the import of his song be understood and heeded?
I pray the wind will carry him to all villages and cities.
May his swift strength carry him, and avert further tragedies.
To see him flying overhead makes me feel assured and calm.
If everyone could know that bird, life would be song and psalm.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SILVERY HAIR
—Linda Klein
Every morning when I wake up
and I see you there beside me,
silvery hair upon your pillow,
so much love I feel inside me.
I could lie and watch you sleeping
more than fifty years—forever.
What we have is so worth keeping.
Would I leave you? Dear, no—never.
_____________________
—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein for today’s talk of art and peace and that blessed silvery hair!
Peace is a dove with wings that flutter to the beat of his heart.
How sweetly coos that bird, his message to impart.
Can he cover the entire world as quickly as is needed,
and will the import of his song be understood and heeded?
I pray the wind will carry him to all villages and cities.
May his swift strength carry him, and avert further tragedies.
To see him flying overhead makes me feel assured and calm.
If everyone could know that bird, life would be song and psalm.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SILVERY HAIR
—Linda Klein
Every morning when I wake up
and I see you there beside me,
silvery hair upon your pillow,
so much love I feel inside me.
I could lie and watch you sleeping
more than fifty years—forever.
What we have is so worth keeping.
Would I leave you? Dear, no—never.
_____________________
—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein for today’s talk of art and peace and that blessed silvery hair!
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
