Poem #120 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.
Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction
he sculpted the head
with his hands
the size of it
the broad
shape
.
.
.
.
.
the weight
and by touch
he elaborated each eye
marked an iris
rounded a pupil
then
as though a blink
may one day be needed
he fashioned
for each
an eyelid
a nose
smooth geographical marker
of the landscape
that he felt
beneath his hand
nostrils curved
from out
to in
cheekbones
only visible
to his touch
his fingers explored
-so tactile–
the mouth
an excavation that then required
its own tongue
though silent
only ever speaking
into his head
he formed a ridge
inside
etched the teeth
molars and canines
incisors
in the form of a smile
he added paired lips
full and rounded
slightly parted
as though paused
in the midst
of the whisper
of something profound
finally the ears
a canal
before the peculiar
contoured funnel
of the auricle
he built up
his sculpted head
from the inner
out
washed his hands clean
of remnant clay
and laid his hand
once again
gently
on the face
© Frank Prem 2018
Bachelard and me Poem #121: alive now
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Beautiful writing. Thank you for sharing.
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Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed the piece.
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excellent imagery and “tactility”
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Hi msjadeli. Thank you so much.
I found it to be a marvelous contemplation, when writing
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Wonderful poem. At first I thought it was a blind man feeling a face, but how original to imagine its creation, either by the creator or a creator.
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Hey Judy. Thank you. it was an interesting exercise to try to put myself in that place. Tricky, but irresistible.
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