When the sculptor is dead his statues ask him for a soul.
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Golden Statues
We strike the hearts of golden statues,
Inside them we find and describe the futility.
This innocent man who beautified the world
Has created his own house where no statues exist.
Open these writings with the key of success
So that reading and writing beleaguers the olden men.
Internal strife stagnates the soul’s journey,
But where is the pain so descriptive?
Disrupt nobody in this nation of brilliance,
Offend nobody, nobody must be destroyed
But the statues of great art, the living stones?
No! - They reside in the crevices of flames
And so smoke and ash leap into the sky.
Inculcate these beliefs in the heart
And the head shall follow with similar faith.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Statue Maker
The death angels came to take a soul,
But the whole game appeared to be foul.
Thirteen alike persons standing in queue,
The real one they wanted, there’s no clue.
Angels confused, whose soul they’ll take;
‘God’ will never forgive, if they mistake.
In fact, the skilled and clever statue maker,
Could carve one’s sculpture, truly similar.
The carver was very confident of his art;
‘Why should not use it for me’, he thought.
He had made twelve statues alike to him,
Virtually, he put his soul, in making them.
Statues were so perfect, looked like alive;
Though breathless but none could realise.
When came to take his soul, angels of death;
He stood amongst those, stopping his breath.
Angels couldn’t identify him; returned in vain.
Reaching the god, full story they explained.
‘Single such person made, records ascertain’,
The angry ‘God’ told, and sent them again.
This time the angels came, a plan prepared;
Watching statues carefully, they murmured-
‘Wav! an excellent work, but done a mistake! ’
Listening such comment, he shook like quake
Stunned statue maker, immediately did react
And surprisingly yelled! , ‘where is the mistake? ’
Where the mistake was, angels understood,
Soul of the great carver, very easily they took.
- S.D.Tiwari
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Show-Piece
Behold! knees curled up to his chin
Head down, his empty bowl shaken
Fatigued and languished with weary mind
On penniless status for his bread...
Pity, even unaware of somebody playing upon
Poor beggar, a pose of hapless repose
An act of begging on loss
But an utility for a sculptor behind
The chisel shaping up poverty well formed
Benefitted is the sculptor in bucks
Soiled emotions to the beggar glue
His concaved belly nothing to pursue
Unnoticeably trespassed the sculptor to crop
A faint sitting target artistically on whop
Sold off by re-makes, the sculptor's ooh!
In a rich man's house seated respectfully
Is the pauper carved carefully
Out of a heavy stone looking meaningfully
With unshaken bowl for pennies hopefully!
poem by Indira Renganathan
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No person who is not a great sculptor or painter can be an architect. If he is not a sculptor or painter, he can only be a builder.
quote by John Ruskin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: After Death
A dead person never requires praise,
Nor does rebuking help to change his ways;
What if he wins or loses any case?
His earthly tenure, none can ev’r efface.
The soul that’s dead needs no awards/rewards,
Or posthumous citations, or birthdays;
What does it matter if they be kings/ bards?
No monument, his achievements repays.
And statues, paintings too will not suffice,
To glorify his works or laud great souls;
Just prayers for the dead souls will be wise,
And pleas to God to save souls from hell’s coals.
Death is a full-stop to our life’s sentence!
Where use we must, our sense and common sense.
9-12-2002
poem by John Celes
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There are even more statues of Robert Burns than of any other figure in world literature. Indeed if we discount figures of religion, then only Christopher Columbus has more statues than he worldwide.
quote by Len G. Murray
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For a Statue of Æscalupius
Far as Miletus travelled Paean's son;
There to be guest of Nicias, guest of one
Who heals all sickness; and who still reveres
Him, for his sake this cedarn image rears.
The sculptor's hand right well did Nicias fill;
And here the sculptor lavished all his skill.
poem by Theocritus
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The Sound of Silence
I’m walking down the street
and I hear the sculptor in his house
working on his statue of Krishna
and the chisel rings out on the stone
like a bell that wants to tell you something:
the stone saying, I am perfectly made for this;
the chisel saying, I am perfectly made for this;
the sculptor saying, this is prayer;
Krishna saying, I shall enter this.
And I hear in the sound of the chisel on the stone,
as sure as I know my own name,
that the sculptor is listening to all this too.
The bell-like sound lingers in the air
as if the air would keep it for ever
as the air’s prayer. It’s music.
The clearer the sound
of his striking chisel on stone,
the deeper the silence
as if sound and silence between them
know a secret: that sounds like this
can do anything in the world;
even call Krishna with their music
to play at being stone for us.
The stone’s laughing also:
playing at being Krishna.
They’re both laughing.
The sculptor is smiling too.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Two Graves
First Ghost
To sepulcher my mouldy bones
I bough a pile of noble stones,
And half a year a sculptor spent
To hew my marble monument,
The stateliest to rear its head
In all this city of the dead.
And generations passing through
Will gape, and ask: What did he do
To earn this tomb so rich and rare,
In Attic grace beyond compare?
How was his life in honour spent,
To worthy this proud monument?
What did I do" Well, nothing much.
'Tis true I had the Midas touch.
A million pounds I made wherewith
To glorify the name: John Smith;
Yet not a soul wept for me when
Death raft me from my fellow men.
My sculptor wins undying fame,
While I, who paid, am just a name.
Second Ghost
A wooden cross surveys my bones,
With on it stenciled: Peter Jones.
And round it are five hundred more;
(A proper job did old man War!)
So young they were, so fresh, so fit,
So hopeful - that's the hell of it.
The old are sapped and ripe to die,
But in the flush of Spring was I.
I might have fathered children ten,
To come to grips with sterling men;
And now a cross in weeds to rot,
Is all to show how fierce I fought.
The old default, the young must pay;
My life was wasted, thrown away.
While people gladden, to forget
The bitterness of vein regret,
With not a soul to morn for me
My skull grins up in mockery.
. . . Pale crosses greet the grieving stars,
And always will be - War and Wars.
poem by Robert William Service
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Soul On Fire
Theres a flame that leads our souls astray
No ones safe from its tender touch of pain
And every day its looking for new slaves
To celebrate the beauty of the grave
We are like the living dead
Sacrificing all we have
For a frozen heart and a soul on fire
We are like the living dead
Craving for deliverance
With a frozen heart and a soul on fire
And again were falling for disgrace
And hate will shelter us from the rain
We are enslaved by the sacred heart of shame
And gently raped by the light of day
We are like the living dead
Sacrificing all we have
For a frozen heart and a soul on fire
We are like the living dead
Craving for deliverence
With a frozen heart and a soul on fire
Addicted to our divine despair
(? )
But you will follow us to death
We are like the living dead
Sacrificing all we have
For a frozen heart and a soul on fire
We are like the living dead
Craving for deliverence
With a frozen heart and a soul on fire
With a soul on
Soul on
Soul on
Fire
Soul on fire
song performed by by H.i.m. (his Infernal Majesty)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Soul On Fire
There's a flame that leads our souls astray
No one's safe from its tender touch of pain
And every day it's looking for new slaves
To celebrate the beauty of the grave
We are like the living dead
Sacrificing all we have
For a frozen heart and a soul on fire
We are like the living dead
Craving for deliverance
With a frozen heart and a soul on fire
And again we're falling for disgrace
And hate will shelter us from the rain
We are enslaved by the sacred heart of shame
And gently raped by the light of day
We are like the living dead
Sacrificing all we have
For a frozen heart and a soul on fire
We are like the living dead
Craving for deliverence
With a frozen heart and a soul on fire
Addicted to our divine despair
The venom of the cross we bear
The guilt will follow us to death
We are like the living dead
Sacrificing all we have
For a frozen heart and a soul on fire
We are like the living dead
Craving for deliverence
With a frozen heart and a soul on fire
With a soul on
Soul on
Soul on
Fire
Soul on fire
song performed by by H.I.M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unintelligent Design
An hour a day,
sometimes more,
I chipped away
with mallet and chisel
on a block of marble
I found in Carrara
and shipped to New York
on the deck of a trawler.
I offered the marble
to a famous sculptor
who told me he works
in granite only
so I grabbed his beret
and one of his smocks
and said I'd sculpt
the block myself
with whittling skills
picked up as a kid
from a drunken uncle
named Whittling Sid.
Several weeks later,
to my surprise,
I finished the bust
of a chimpanzee
simply by wielding
mallet and chisel
the way I wield
pencil and eraser
when hewing a poem.
Working with marble
or working with words,
a sculptor or poet
proves less is more
by chipping away
until something emerges
upright and walking
with a soul of its own.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Guido Sebaldi
Guido Sebaldi the mason
Worked at a house of stone:
Guido Sebaldi the mason
Sand at his work alone.
Till a stranger, he said unto him
As he hammer'd the stone one day'
'Guido Sebaldi the mason,
Hark to the words I say!'
'Leave thou this work, fit only
For oxen that draw the plough:
No longer Sebaldi the mason,
Guido the sculptor thou!'
Then Guido Sebaldi the mason
Look'd on his work in shame.
And 'Lo,' he said, 'I am lusty,
I will build me a noble name.'
Guido Sebaldi the sculptor
Toil'd till his heart grew sore.
Guido Sebaldi the sculptor
Sang at his work no more.
Vainly Sebaldi the mason
Hammer'd the senseless stone.
Vainly Sebaldi the mason
Sigh'd at his work alone.
His hands were ready and skillful,
And his days with toil were rife,
But the soul of the master was needed
To waken the stone to life.
Sadly Sebaldi the mason
Went back to the house of stone;
And his brow once more grew cheery
As he sat at his work alone.
But yet he was always thinking
Of hopes that were long since o'er;
And Guido Sebaldi the mason
Sang at his work no more.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Golden Words
There is gold where the bronze is consumed
Like the statues we stride on.
Truly the words of a man call him by the neck,
After the phrases are learnt of purity.
Our relaxed fury is upon us, loathing good emotion,
But the statues we become are all still.
Words are all in stillness, suspended and accessed,
In fashion and beauty.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The age of personal statues is gone. No personal statues shall be erected in the city or parks of Chandigarh. The city is planned to breathe the new sublimated spirit of art. Commemoration of persons shall be confined to suitably placed bronze plaques.
quote by Le Corbusier
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dead Man's love
Your thought makes me to fail
I'm failed as a normal man
It's fine for me
I'm fine.
In the diminishing light
I'm fighting the dark
I'm still singing
I'm still fighting
Though I'm a dead man
I'm singing for you
though I'm a dead man
I'm weeping for you
My soul is gone
But your feels stay
Can you hear this dead howl
The love of a dead man's soul
you are here
I'm nowhere
Cause I'm a dead man
I wish to be with you
poem by Ravi chandran
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Statues Of Sages
Some statues of sages are requested
For the staying is theirs.
Caught by the realm, we provide a problem
For the stationary sort of creatures.
Sages command me further than me,
They write according to paintings,
Their amusements reveal us as we speak.
Understand the men who accomplish
And their survival is needed by the few.
Reading books of authority
We as statues are also sages.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Pigeons
Pigeons land on statues
as though they do not care
about the figure they've landed on.
They only know that where they are
is better than on the ground.
For the sight they see is grander
as they look around.
Statues with the droppings
also do not care.
They stand in silent memory,
usually in a square.
They do not see the droppings.
They're unaffected by the stare
of people unaware
of anything but the pigeoins
that have landed there.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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All Dead, All Dead
Memories, my memories
How long can you stay
To haunt my days
She came without a farthing
A babe without a name
So much ado about nothing
Is what shed try to say
So much ado my lover
So many games we played
Through every fleeted summer
Through every precious day
All dead all dead
All the dreams we had
And I wonder why I still live on
All dead all dead
And alone Im spared
My sweeter half instead
All dead
And gone
All dead...
All dead all dead
At the rainbows end
And still I hear her own sweet song
All dead all dead
Take me back again
You know my little friends
All dead
And gone
All dead and gone
Her ways are always with me
I wander all the while
But please you must forgive me
I am old but still a child
All dead all dead
But I should not grieve
In time it comes to everyone
All dead all dead
But in hope I breathe
Of course I dont believe
Youre dead
And gone
All dead
And gone
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Never Feed Your Body With The Dead Soul
If dreams break even in a dream
Yet you get hurt in your heart
The body is lying like a log
The soul is dead in frosty fog
So dare to dream in a dream
As the soul searches life
The life searches dream
The dream is the cream of life.
let the dream to break down never
Rather get it move like a super car
Stretch it like a synthetic rubber
Make sure that the soul is never dead
And the body is never dead soul fed.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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