Billy Collins reflects on marble . . .
Carrara
by: Billy Collins
The Tyrrhenian Sea was bouncing off to the right
as we headed south down the coast,
and to the left rose the Apennine mountains,
some with their faces quarried away,
from where heavy blocks of white marble
had been cut and carried down
and stacked in rows in yards along the highway.
Is anyone hiding within? I wondered,
as we passed a little Fiat
and were passed in turn by a green Lamborghini,
hiding the way Pinocchio hid inside a log--
maybe David who goes by another name,
or an anonymous girl caught dancing
or any other figure encased and yet to be revealed.
Are you in there, Dawn with your sunburst halo,
concealed from the freshly sharpened chisel?
How about you, Spirit of Revolution
waving a flag of marble
and crushing the serpent Tyranny with one foot?
Or is nobody home, no one barely breathing
in the heavy darkness of the pure white stone?
Soon, we were standing on a wide beach
where the body of Shelley had floated ashore,
and where all those questions washed away--
though later I pictured a sculptor wandering
among the blocks, hands clasped behind his back,
then deciding it was time to get to work
on a towering likeness of his favorite English poet.
I think any artist looks at a piece of marble, blank piece of paper, empty stage, stretched canvas, dormant drum and sees/hears/feels something that nobody else does. A favorite English poet. A "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night." A Nutcracker. A Girl with a Pearl Earring. A We Will Rock You. That's how creative minds work. Where others see a rock. an artist will see The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa.
I spent the day at a holistic health fair with an artist friend, trying to sell my poetry and meeting a whole lot of friendly people, some complete strangers and some friends (past and present). I have no idea how the people I encountered voted in the election, although I could make an educated guess. That's not what today was about.
Here is what it was about: connection. Everybody there was searching for help or hope. Some found it in astral readings. Some in essential oils. And some in words.
I led a short poetry workshop at this event in the afternoon. The audience members (one a friend I hadn't seen in almost six or seven years) put pen/pencil to work in search of small, daily wonders. It was that simple. Look at a blank page and see a list of miracles.
Here's what Saint Marty came up with:
Nine Ways of Looking at Wonder
by: Martin Achatz
1.
Frost on grass and roofs
in morning light,
white on white on white.
2.
A hardboiled egg
with golden heart.
3.
A sweet piece of apple
stuck between my teeth.
4.
An old friend's hug,
happy to see me
in a dark time.
5.
Pepperoni pizza
on a greasy plate,
begging for my tongue.
6.
Chocolate.
Always chocolate.
7.
A dog cutting the night
in two with his bark.
8.
A Beaver Moon
in a dawn sky,
God's bright eye.
9.
People in a room
writing poems
about wonder.
❤️
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