Art Enshackled

For a day I was Rodin.

My hands belonged not to me,

But to Michelangelo

And Donatello.

I saw the gray block clay.

It danced before my eyes,

Upon the table it swayed and rocked

With the silent music that was

Such perfect inspiration.

I heard it. It spoke to me

Saying:

“Hear me, hear me,

My creator,

My molder,

My God.

Hear me,

I speak to thee, a man with smooth hands

And inexperience.

So listen.

Listen to these guides

And follow.

May you create me,

May you mold me,

May you rule me.”

As it continued my hands followed in its directions.

I felt humbled by its great knowledge

Of itself.

I was but the tool with which

It formed,

It created,

It ruled

Itself.

I saw it become.

First, a block,

Then a shape,

Then a soul

I saw.

Such a form–

O such a beautiful form it took.

I handed my creation to my teacher.

He cracked it

Beneath his bare knuckles.

“Follow the directions next time.”