Wednesday 17 December 2014
This one was beautiful. I sculpted it myself. Did you know that?
It took years and, if I’m completely honest, I was overly fond of it.
I’d made many, of course. I had to. We all had to.
Cupped, round, and smooth, heavy in my hand like a clay pigeon.
So beautiful...
Somehow it began in light,
Naïveté and youth.
I used to say it just felt right,
And free from all abuse.
At first it formed a perfect ring,
Of lies I thought were true.
I bring it, now, to end the thing.
I bring it, now, to you.
Because every thing must have its place,
Every thing in its own time.
This beautiful thing has failed it's need,
Inspiring only pain and rhyme.
-but may it live in memory, still,
May the growth outweigh the pain.
When pain brings growth beyond your will,
Remember fondly, this thing, again.
So why did I smile when you asked me to hold it?
Why did I find it fitting that you made me load it into the trap?
Why were the lines formed by your braced shoulder,
your leveled forearm, your
outstrectched, cradled hand,
so beautiful...
when you inclined your head,
Closed one eye, and,
Steady, raised your sights?
Why did I love you so much for pulling the trigger?
This is about destroying beautiful, shiny, enticing things in your life that have turned out to be harmful. Once upon a time, a talented marksman took aim at some of mine. I'd like to contrast the appeal of the thing with the violence of its destruction, for creative acts could be defined in violent terms... primal, like the forging of matter in stars and childbirth. Or mundane as the attrition of a pastel chalk, giving up its pigments to the paper canvas.