The Bride of Quietness
My sculptor husband, when he was mine, possessed
Electrifying energy, humor,
The vital heat of violent force compressed ...
Contraries in a controlling frame. Few more
Creative and compelling men could fire
The clay I scarcely dared to call my soul.
Shapeless, lacking properties of higher
Existence, it was perfect for the mold
He cast me in: classic receptacle,
A thing for use but full of elegance,
An ode to Greece, forever practical,
Tellingly patterned with the hunt and dance.
My lines were lies. And yet he seemed to see
Aesthetic validation in my form.
I asked him not to draw away from me.
He said he feared he might commit some harm —
Some accidental, inadvertent hurt —
And shatter in an instant all the love
He'd poured out in the effort to convert
My ordinary mind to a work of
Art. And how he shuddered if I assumed
A new position or a point of view!
As if I were a royal vase entombed
After the ancient style, and the issue
Of my movement could only be a change
In where he stood, relative to his wife.
I had to perdure inanimate and strange
And still, if he would justify his life.
For I was the object of his most profound
Research, the crafty subject of his thesis,
And all I had to do to bring him down
Was let my heart break into all those pieces
It ached to break into in any case.
Upon his graduation, when the guests
Had gone, and night was settling on his face,
Raising my voice above his dreams I confessed
That beauty held no truth for me, nor truth
Beauty, but I was made as much of earth
As I had been, barbaric and uncouth,
Enjoined to rhythm, shiftings, blood and birth,
And void of principle. He said he'd father
No children. I could hardly help knowing
That he'd be wrong to trust me any farther.
By sunrise it was clear he would be going
Soon. Now from time to time I see him here
And there. The shoulders have gone slack, the eyes
Conduct a lesser current and I fear
That when they catch me spying, it's no surprise
To him. He always found poetic justice
Amusing, and he knows I wait my turn.
The artist dies; but what he wrought will last
Forever, when I cradle his cold ashes in this urn.
From Lovers and Agnostics , by Kelly Cherry, Published by Red Clay Books, copyright ┬® 1975 by Kelly Cherry. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Electrifying energy, humor,
The vital heat of violent force compressed ...
Contraries in a controlling frame. Few more
Creative and compelling men could fire
The clay I scarcely dared to call my soul.
Shapeless, lacking properties of higher
Existence, it was perfect for the mold
He cast me in: classic receptacle,
A thing for use but full of elegance,
An ode to Greece, forever practical,
Tellingly patterned with the hunt and dance.
My lines were lies. And yet he seemed to see
Aesthetic validation in my form.
I asked him not to draw away from me.
He said he feared he might commit some harm —
Some accidental, inadvertent hurt —
And shatter in an instant all the love
He'd poured out in the effort to convert
My ordinary mind to a work of
Art. And how he shuddered if I assumed
A new position or a point of view!
As if I were a royal vase entombed
After the ancient style, and the issue
Of my movement could only be a change
In where he stood, relative to his wife.
I had to perdure inanimate and strange
And still, if he would justify his life.
For I was the object of his most profound
Research, the crafty subject of his thesis,
And all I had to do to bring him down
Was let my heart break into all those pieces
It ached to break into in any case.
Upon his graduation, when the guests
Had gone, and night was settling on his face,
Raising my voice above his dreams I confessed
That beauty held no truth for me, nor truth
Beauty, but I was made as much of earth
As I had been, barbaric and uncouth,
Enjoined to rhythm, shiftings, blood and birth,
And void of principle. He said he'd father
No children. I could hardly help knowing
That he'd be wrong to trust me any farther.
By sunrise it was clear he would be going
Soon. Now from time to time I see him here
And there. The shoulders have gone slack, the eyes
Conduct a lesser current and I fear
That when they catch me spying, it's no surprise
To him. He always found poetic justice
Amusing, and he knows I wait my turn.
The artist dies; but what he wrought will last
Forever, when I cradle his cold ashes in this urn.
From Lovers and Agnostics , by Kelly Cherry, Published by Red Clay Books, copyright ┬® 1975 by Kelly Cherry. Reprinted by permission of the author.
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