Poetry Corner 05-08-11

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The Artist:
A Form Poem

I created her from nothing:
A heap of empty leaves.
I planned her night and morning;
Of notes, I wrote out sheaves.

An outline on the anvil:
That rough, imperfect start.
I planned her night and day, until
She nearly broke my heart.

At last I planned her just so;
Every detail written right.
I heated the ore ‘til it gave a glow;
Beginning was in sight.

I pulled the lump of shining ore;  
The pen unleashed my mind.
Useless slag pooled on the floor;
Bad ideas left behind.

I took a hammer in my hand;
Pen in my firm grasp.
It clinked against the glowing brand;
The words flowed with a gasp.

I lightly tapped to shape her form;
My words flowed like a stream.
Her subtle order from the storm;
I gave life to a dream.

I tapped, I pulled, I hammered;
The events took their shape.
She glowed there like a fire-bird;
‘Twas playing like a tape.

Under my direction, she came;
Conflict flowed into next.
I prodded into existence her frame;
I sculpted the shape of the text.

My hands shaped her form like clay;
The words were threads of a rug.
She glowed hot and bright as day;
My story gardens dug.
Her fire dimmed, she would not mold;
My mind became as stone.
I heaved on the bellows, drove off her cold;
The answer I was shown.

My tools became one with my hand;
The pen a bridge to my mind.
I mixed with her substance charcoal sand;
I added more words left behind.

Now I made her tiniest detail;
Go back, spell-check, revise.
I carved a line with the end of a nail;
Dots I gave to the i’s.

I doused her heat- she was done;
My narrative came to an end.
Her glow faded from white to dun;
No longer would she bend.

I sent her off into the world:
She went off to be sold.
My head bowed, my brow furled,
She would now get old.

I gave my creation to the giant crowd;
My wonder shown to all.
The prospect had me thoroughly cowed:
She’d get passed about like a ball!

I gave the world my heart and soul
The sum of all my work:
My creation,
My creativity,
My ideas,
My skill,
My love,
My inspiration,
My labor, my sweat and blood,
My mind,

My child.

—Cary Bronson