MASTER CRAFTSMEN

A chaste sheet of paper, a virgin slab of marble,
Patiently awaiting that touch of the master
Craftsman, to reveal that hidden splendor
Which resides, buried deep, within its soul,
Unfathomable, lying untouched for an eon and more

To the naked eye, it is undistinguished,
Incomplete in itself, lacking worth;
Until those determined and sublime hands
Stroke, shape, cajole and draw out gently
That beauty which inhabits the depths of its core

The Poet and the Sculptor are lovers supreme;
For they alone can release that magnificence,
That sublime and lyrical richness, which dwells
Trapped beneath that unscathed, untouched exterior,
Needing only their expertise, for it to surface above

When the pen feverishly glides on the paper
Or chisel and hammer strike incessantly at the stone,
Slowly but surely, magically they begin to take form
The sonnet, the lyric, the ballad, the song,
Glorious Madonna or David, Zeus or Hercules most strong

One wonders then, if the images had forever
Secretly resided, patiently, in that article or stone,
Or, did they seep through the tools that toiled untiringly
alone,
Or was it simply the Immortality of that artist supreme
Unwittingly reflected therein, and transferred munificently to it
so.

~Glowing Embers~
26th March 2003
(Dedicated to a Master Poet)