Tags
Easter Week, Elaine Stirling, Good Friday, medieval thought, mysticism, poetry, Rodin, sonnet, symbology, the Court of Love
“The Thinker” by Auguste Rodin (1840-1917)
Rodin, who thinks in close proximity
to your bronze man in awkward pose of thought,
do they disturb your vast serenity
bone-weary from the battles they have fought?
Your thinker is the poet at the gates
of Hell, from Dante and Medici you
have borrowed epic themes of mortal hates,
so to our own, we come for closer view.
But don’t you ever yearn to hang a sign?
Do not confuse the sculptor with the man,
nor hope through contemplation that we’ll find
what flows through you by God’s well-chosen plan.
The shadow of a poetess may cool,
but only Love can resurrect a fool.
~~~
© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Oceantics 
And a fool is a masterpiece of love. Brava, Signora!
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You caught the most important piece. Bravo, Signore!
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Your fine piece once again has inspired me Elaine. A fine sonnet you have written, with that ending couplet truly matching the stature of the subject matter. “Do not confuse the sculptor with the man,” another masterful line.
Thanks for the inspiration and the art lesson for the week, I had no idea that this piece was all about, always figured it was just a stand alone sculpture. Thanks again for the inspiration for the below
Poet at the Gate
What foundry buffoon dared change my name
From poet to mere thinker? Rodin would not be glad!
Upon the gate he placed me high so my fame
Would gaze in contemplation of all the good and bad.
Only naked, stripped of judgment, from above all I view
Can I look at the true nature of morality eye to eye
And wrestle with its consequence beyond the mortal brew
See into the spiraled depths deeper down than up the sky.
Beneath me here, I am still part of this complicated scene
It is only a small portion I can gain of ultimate omniscience
No matter how I furl scalp and brow or the matter in between
It is to the blow of hammer to the chisel I owe my obeisance.
This is known by poets, comes as no surprise–
Insight comes to thinking fools as well as wise.
D. Russel Micnhimer 3-29-2013
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Rodin would be glad indeed, Russel, of the voice you’ve given to his Thinker/Poet. Your sonnet includes priceless clues of the geometry of deeper thought…you’ve reached that pre-division place, before we branch off to idiot and know-it-all. What spirals off from those polarities…well, we’ve plenty of evidence & perhaps more choice than we’ve acknowledged of how much to participate in the complicated scene. Thank you for this.
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Birth of the Thinker
Prologue
manifest the poem
from a gray beard
a challenge in the aether came
then quickly disappeared
but not before I’d seen
i.
in a matrix with no end or edge
across solid hollow eons
I waited
bones unstirred
muscles not yet flexed
eyes unblinked
neither open nor closed
ears knowing neither silence
nor sound I waited inside my stony bed
breath neither awake nor asleep
effervescent
deep
lii.
I hear faint tapping
a muted echo
yet persistent
with circumspective confidence
the tapping grows louder
then recedes
till I can barely hear it
then again it increases
and retreats
iii.
I tap back
echoing an image of my self
from my dark filled tomb
a form of my self
in my cell
for the sage with hammer
and chisel to unbind
does he hear
I do not know
I only know
I hear a tapping back
iv.
day after day
week after week
the dialogue of taps
continues and sometimes
just for a moment
I see the abyss shudder
not to light
but to darkness
not as black
v.
from in front
behind
above
below
the tap tap tapping echoes
sometimes with a deep deep voice
sometimes with a whisper very thin
vi.
slowly the pitch black bed
around me begins to turn
lighter shades of gray
translucence gradually
increases as the volume
of the tapping each day
more loud grows
my joints ache to arch
my tongue begs for moisture
into which I can drown
my lungs strain to fill with air
I know is there
in the world where the hammer
strikes the chisel
vii.
at last the dream
I’ve dreamed so long
vision of marble chips flying
taking away the fleeing night
comes cascading quickly
unfurling my arms
the sinews of my legs
the thrust of my loins
those long slumbered limbs
are called forth from the master’s vision
to oversee the scenes upon the door
my hand goes
of its own volition
to quickly cover brow
when he finally carves
the pupils of my eyes
I gaze for first time
fully into the light
and realize
I am blind
D. Russel Micnhimer 4-7-2013
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Russel, you’ve rewritten Genesis here. I don’t mean that in a grandiose or glib sense…but as a re-presenting of the creative process from non-being to manifestation. In seven parts, seven days, with the “sacred zero” prologue.
I read this poem, then I used this poem to propel me through the final three sonnets of The Sisters Mercantilia. For those with ears to hear, you’ve tapped the way out. Thank you, all the way down through Rodin, Dante, and the inhabitants around and below.
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