Sculptor, Sylvia Plath 1958 (For Leonard Baskin)
To his house the bodiless
Come to barter endlessly
Vision, wisdom, for bodies
Palpable as his, and weighty.
Hands moving move priestlier
Than priest´s hands, invoke no vain
Images of light and air
But sure stations in bronze, wood, stone.
Obdurate, in dense-grained wood,
A bald angel blocks and shapes
The flimsy light; arms folded
Watches his cumbrous world eclipse
Inane worlds of wind and cloud.
Bronze dead dominate floor,
Resistive, ruddy-bodied,
Dwarfing us. Our bodies flicker
Toward extinction in those eyes
Which, without him, were beggared
Of place, time, and their bodies.
Emoulous spirits make discord,
Try entry, enter nightmares
Until his chisel bequeaths
Them life livelier than ours,
A solider repose than death´s.
Är inte varje människa värd en sådan skulptur?
Lutar mig emot.
Leonard Baskin:
Liknar utforskningen av människogestalten
vid ett sökande efter bilden av människan
– som trots sin ynkedom ändå är en storslagen varelse.
Ja? Ja.
Bilder Sylvia Plath härifrån, Leonard Baskins skulpturer i Marabouparken härifrån. Foto Linda Waxin: Rickard Sund.