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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The sculptor produces the beautiful statue by chipping away such parts of the marble block as are not needed - it is a process of elimination.
quote by Elbert Hubbard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
quote by William C. Bryant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Death of Magnus Kep
It was ages since I'd seen him,
So I felt quite out of step
With the old Etruscan sculptor
That I knew as Magnus Kep,
He was brooding in an alley
By an old Byzantine store,
Then he saw me, and he beckoned,
And we walked along the shore.
He was hunting there for marble,
For his studio in Graz,
But we stopped in at a wine bar
And we sampled their Shiraz,
And he told me things he'd never said
To anyone before,
About why he searched the Holy Land,
And ruins, by the score.
'I can see their shapes within each block
Of marble, ' he had said,
'And I know that they are waiting
To be freed, because they're dead,
But they lived so long ago that they
Are patient, in despair,
Though their limbs are still as supple,
And there's fragrance in their hair.'
I was sure the heat had got to him,
His eyes had fairly gleamed,
And I thought his mind disordered,
But I listened to his theme,
He was looking for the marble
That contained the wanton form
Of a pornographic priestess
He had glimpsed the year before.
'She was lying in the harbour,
At the bottom of the sea,
Only fifteen feet of water
Separated her from me,
She had lived a thousand years
Before the walls had tumbled in
To the harbour, where she frolicked
In the service of the king.'
Then we stopped and peered over
At the slight and gentle swell,
Down and through the clear water,
There were pillars, where they fell,
There were blackened slabs of marble lying
Scorched, as if by fire,
Where the mighty Alexander
Burned the city known as Tyre!
'Can you see her there? ' he pointed,
And I saw a marble slab,
Lying half upon a pillar,
It was worn, and dull and drab,
'Do you see that haughty forehead,
Do you see her pointed breasts? '
But I only saw a weathered stone,
He conjured all the rest.
We parted, and I heard that he
Had raised that mighty stone,
Had shipped it back to Graz where he
Could work on it alone,
The seasons came and went before
I thought to follow on,
And asked about his sculpture then,
His eyes had fairly shone.
He led me to the basement and
He showed me through the door,
He'd chiseled out just half of it,
That nearest to the floor,
The woman's legs were parted and
Inviting to the king,
Her vulva gaping proudly like
Some fertile offering.
It took my breath away, I stood
And scanned those supple thighs,
Like frankincense and myrrh they were
A balm upon my eyes,
I saw that she was locked in there,
The sculptor hadn't lied,
He'd simply chipped the stone away
And there she was, inside!
I asked him then, 'How long before
We get to see her face? '
He said it didn't matter, he
Would try to lend her grace,
'She's painted like a whore, ' he said,
'Back then, it was the thing,
Her duty was to paint her face
To please her lord, the king! '
For months I sat and wondered how
She'd looked, as she emerged,
She'd lain in stone three thousand years
When Kep had felt the urge
To chisel from her marble vault
Her buttocks, waist and thighs,
Reveal again to living men
The wonder of their eyes!
I never saw Kep whole again,
Confusing? Yes, I know!
They said they'd had to lay him out
Down at his studio.
His head was in a basket, where they'd
Shown him disrespect,
To free him from the fingers she
Had gripped... around his neck!
2 July 2010
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wait, things are shaping up
I approached a sculptor the other day
For carving a statue of
Gautama Buddha
He asked me a number of questions
Some of them were far stretched
Though I answered all of them
I was thinking within that
All these details were unnecessary
He could read my mind and said
These details were needed to help me
Come out with what exactly you were looking for
He suggested my coming to him
Two weeks later
Why so long and he said
Wait things are shaping up
Two weeks later
I saw practically no progress
He showed me a granite block
Which he said he would carve
As Gautama Buddha
He suggested me to visit him
Two weeks later
“Do you not think we are delaying? ”
I asked and he said
Wait things are shaping up
I went to him as suggested
No change at all
The block was under water
And carving had not started
He said that this curing process
Would help him understand
The quality of the block
And he opined
That we were lucky in
Selecting the right granite
And he suggested my visiting him
A week later
“Yes, I know you are wondering
As to why it is taking so much time”
How he could say even without my telling that
He continued
Wait, things are shaping up
A week later
No great change
But the block got castled here and there
No where near my expectations
“Come after three days and see”
But, he assured
Wait, things are shaping up
I made four visits later
At intervals of three, two and one days
I could not make out head or tail
Of what was happening
But, each time I returned
Hearing his words
Wait, things are shaping up
I was wondering
Are things really shaping up
Or am I being fooled
I did not visit him for
Full three months
As I was sure that
I would not be able to appreciate
The progress that the sculptor
Would be claiming to have made
One day, there was a call from him
“Come and see your Gautama Buddha”
I was not excited
I visited his place in all reluctance
And was preparing to hear
Wait, things are shaping up
But, what a surprise
Saw my Gautama Buddha
In a shape and carving
Beyond my belief
And I was not able to control my excitement
“I know you are wondering how this could be possible
But, you know, I was telling each time you visited that
Wait, things are shaping up”
We all do prayers seeking some change
And we wonder as to when the change would fructify
God, like a sculptor is shaping things
But, he never tells
Wait, things are shaping up
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Art
I
Yes! Beauty still rebels!
Our dreams like clouds disperse:
She dwells
In agate, marble, verse.
No false constraint be thine!
But, for right walking, choose
The fine,
The strict cothurnus, Muse.
Vainly ye seek to escape
The toil! The yielding phrase
Ye shape
Is clay, not chrysoprase.
And all in vain ye scorn
That seeming ease which ne’er
Was born
Of aught but love and care.
Take up the sculptor’s tool!
Recall the gods that die
To rule
In Parian o’er the sky.
II
Poet, let passion sleep
Till with the cosmic rhyme
You keep
Eternal tone and time,
By rule of hour and flower,
By strength of stern restraint
And power
To fail and not to faint.
The task is hard to learn
While all the songs of Spring
Return
Along the blood and sing.
Yet hear—from her deep skies,
How Art, for all your pain,
Still cries
Ye must be born again!
Reject the wreath of rose,
Take up the crown of thorn
That shows
To-night a child is born.
The far immortal face
In chosen onyx fine
Enchase,
Delicate line by line.
Strive with Carrara, fight
With Parian, till there steal
To light
Apollo’s pure profile.
Set the great lucid form
Free from its marble tomb
To storm
The heights of death and doom.
Take up the sculptor’s tool!
Recall the gods that die
To rule
In Parian o’er the sky.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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David, the marble sculpture....
the human
male sculpture of David
stands tall
naked to the tourist
amazed
to the greatness of
the marble
body
was it the story of this
man whose stone did not
miss Goliath?
was it the genius of his
creator who mastered
the curves and
balance via
the marble and the
chisel?
or is it this unending feeling
of the tourist
still unsatisfied about what
is lustful and
beautiful?
if you have seen and touched
it by now you must
have understood
what it is to be naked
admired
and then abandoned
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Man cannot remake himself without suffering, for he is both the marble and the sculptor.
quote by Alexis Carrel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Franklin Jones
If I could have lived another year
I could have finished my flying machine,
And become rich and famous.
Hence it is fitting the workman
Who tried to chisel a dove for me
Made it look more like a chicken.
For what is it all but being hatched,
And running about the yard,
To the day of the block?
Save that a man has an angel's brain,
And sees the ax from the first!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Two Deep Silences..
Two deep Silences-
One, of meditative Sculptor
Other, of the Boulder
In timeless penance
Melt in intense passion
Through rhythmic jingles
Of dancing chisel.
A marvellous Beauty
After months of
Labour pains
Is born
Out of its womb!
O! is it the dream
Of damsel rock?
Or, is it Full Moon
Churned out of
Two silences
By sharp clinks
Of cute chisel?
poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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Yourself you shape
Yourself the stone
Yourself the sculptor
Yourself the chisel
Yourself you shape
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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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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What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to the soul.
quote by Joseph Addison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The best artist has that thought alone Which is contained within the marble shell; The sculptor's hand can only break the spell To free the figures slumbering in the stone.
quote by Michelangelo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Monument For The Soldiers
A monument for the Soldiers!
And what will ye build it of?
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze,
Outlasting the Soldiers' love?
Can ye glorify it with legends
As grand as their blood hath writ
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine
To the outermost verge of it?
And the answer came: We would build it
Out of our hopes made sure,
And out of our purest prayers and tears,
And out of our faith secure:
We would build it out of the great white truths
Their death hath sanctified,
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms,
And their faces ere they died.
And what heroic figures
Can the sculptor carve in stone?
Can the marble breast be made to bleed,
And the marble lips to moan?
Can the marble brow be fevered?
And the marble eyes be graved
To look their last, as the flag floats past,
On the country they have saved?
And the answer came: The figures
Shall all be fair and brave,
And, as befitting, as pure and white
As the stars above their grave!
The marble lips, and breast and brow
Whereon the laurel lies,
Bequeath us right to guard the flight
Of the old flag in the skies!
A monument for the Soldiers!
Built of a people's love,
And blazoned and decked and panoplied
With the hearts ye build it oft
And see that ye build it stately,
In pillar and niche and gate,
And high in pose as the souls of those
It would commemorate!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Shape Shifting Words
without pause
without stopping
poet prose wrote...
entire poem concept
out complete
final finished
perfect form irregular
Michelangelo minds...
scan depths swift
chop away dross edges
swift writ
work revealing
original shape...
image mind
figure seen
into physical
reality speed world
true x-ray artists...
must ever dice work this
clay marble way fast
image craving out
solid marble blocks
from rich mind...
quarry form shape
shifting words
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I choose a block of marble and chop off whatever I don't need.
quote by Auguste Rodin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Faust: What wilt from me, Base Spirit, say? Brass, marble, parchment, paper, clay? The terms with graver, quill, or chisel, stated? I freely leave the choice to thee.
line from Faust by Goethe (1808), translated by Bayard Taylor
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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A Sculptor
As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, lifts
Chisel and hammer to the block at hand,
Before my half-formed character I stand
And ply the shining tools of mental gifts.
I'll cut away a huge, unsightly side
Of selfishness, and smooth to curves of grace
The angles of ill-temper.
And no trace
Shall my sure hammer leave of silly pride.
Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,
And the sharp corners of my discontent
Be rounded into symmetry, and lent
Great harmony by faith that never tires.
Unfinished still, I must toil on and on,
Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, ''Tis done.'
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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