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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=373589" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Cave Painters</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Holding only a handful of rushlight<br>they pressed deeper into the dark, at a crouch <br>until the great rock chamber<br>flowered around them and they stood<br>in an enormous womb of<br>flickering light and darklight, a place<br>to make a start. Raised hands cast flapping shadows <br>over the sleeker shapes of radiance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They've left the world of weather and panic<br>behind them and gone on in, drawing the dark <br>in their wake, pushing as one pulse<br>to the core of stone. The pigments mixed in big shells <br>are crushed ore, petals and pollens, berries<br>and the binding juices oozed<br>out of chosen barks. The beasts</div><div style="margin:10px 0">begin to take shape from hands and feather-tufts <br>(soaked in ochre, manganese, madder, mallow white) <br>stroking the live rock, letting slopes and contours <br>mould those forms from chance, coaxing<br>rigid dips and folds and bulges<br>to lend themselves to necks, bellies, swelling haunches, <br>a forehead or a twist of horn, tails and manes<br>curling to a crazy gallop.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Intent and human, they attach<br>the mineral, vegetable, animal<br>realms to themselves, inscribing<br>the one unbroken line<br>everything depends on, from that<br>impenetrable centre<br>to the outer intangibles of light and air, even <br>the speed of the horse, the bison's fear, the arc<br>of gentleness that this big-bellied cow <br>arches over its spindling calf, or the lancing <br>dance of death that<br>bristles out of the buck's<br>struck flank. On this one line they leave <br>a beak-headed human figure of sticks <br>and one small, chalky, human hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We'll never know if they worked in silence <br>like people praying—the way our monks <br>illuminated their own dark ages <br>in cross-hatched rocky cloisters, <br>where they contrived a binding <br>labyrinth of lit affinities<br>to spell out in nature's lace and fable <br>their mindful, blinding sixth sense<br>of a god of shadows—or whether (like birds <br>tracing their great bloodlines over the globe) <br>they kept a constant gossip up<br>of praise, encouragement, complaint.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It doesn't matter: we know<br>they went with guttering rushlight<br>into the dark; came to terms<br>with the given world; must have had<br>—as their hands moved steadily<br>by spiderlight—one desire<br>we'd recognise: they would—before going on <br>beyond this border zone, this nowhere <br>that is now here—leave something<br>upright and bright behind them in the dark.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Eamon+Grennan">Eamon Grennan</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=373589" data-title="The Cave Painters de Eamon Grennan" data-description="Holding only a handful of rushlight
they pressed deeper into the dark, at a crouch 
until the great rock chamber
flowered around them and they stood
in an enormous womb of
flickering light and darklight, a place
to make a start. Raised hands cast ..."></div>
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