Friday, April 01, 2005
More poetry...
The Hands of the Artist-- a poem about how a simple artist’s hands made magic in his work, and how this magic inspired others to do the same.
I watched the artist who sat in the streetEvery morning he would be thereAnd in his hands would beA sheet of paper, some canvas, a lump of clayA paintbrush, a pencil, some paintAs he picked up these various itemsHe and I knewHis hands would work his magicTo make something newHis hands covered the canvas with skilled strokesHis eyes taking in his painted designsHis hands gently sculpted the clayUnearthing hidden treasures withinHis hands sketched on the paperPlacing his fantasies on the sheetAnd in all his work, his handsDrew my gazeThey were blackened with coalWhen he made a sketchThey were stained with paintWhen a painting was his planThey were streaked with clayWhen he sculpted his workBut in my beauty-loving eyesAll these blemishes gave his handsA beauty all their ownThey showed hours of work and dedicationThey showed how he poured love and joy into his artAnd they showed the life and magic he madeI admired how his handsTirelessly gave something new lifeI longed to do the sameSo I copied the movements of his handsMaking my own little magicMaking any and all art there isAnd when I was done, I sawThat my hands now resembled his.
~~ Eruanne
Current mood: calmCurrent music: 'Julia' from Final Fantasy VIII (Hehehe, lately I became interested in finishing my game of FF8, and just for kicks I downloaded some of the music)
11:07 PM