A curator's creaking shoe
damages the reverential silence,
the well modulated tone of tour guide's
voice echoes in the space.
Beneath the opaque glass dome
with its shifting play of light
thrusting bronze made flesh,
firm flowing beard touched
by a thousand curious fingertips,
gazed upon with mild passing
interest, ignored by some, hollow
eyed coldness radiates something
of wisdom, something of death.
Its inner life ticking like a
God-given mechanism,
it says, look at me, I'm creator,
created, manipulated, patinated,
I know your secret.
written on studying Epstein's bronze of Tagore in Birmingham Art Gallery
No comments:
Post a Comment