Images shape a truth in space
and time
With such strict clarity and power
That words fall silent - lose all purpose -
rhyme or reason
Become tongue tied like children caught
red handed,
Their pockets crammed with sweets and
cigarettes.
Wood is a coarse grained medium to work
with,
And few plying chisel, lathe or plane
Can reveal the mystery of life distilled in
stillness,
Or a moment of music seemingly withheld,
Even though the secret songs the tree once
whispered
To wildwood friends and parkland neighbours
Remain embedded deep in root and branch.
Perhaps it is these ancient forest songs
That this hand carved Buddha seems to be in touch with
As he sits - an icon of quietude -
In the room where I display my paintings and my books.
But he is not simply a work of art - he is too alive in his
stillness,
His absolute powers of concentration
Made visible by the raw skill of the artist
Who shaped him from the rough wood - revealed his quiet
heart
Still beating deep beneath the polished surface.
And the smile on the face of this Buddha seems so ancient
I am almost sure it was formed before time existed,
Poem by. Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
16th. - 18th. - 24th. November 2022.
Lingers deep within the carvings core.
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