by daragh byrne

For Subhana Barghazi

The sculptor’s hands are shaped as they shape stone.
Statues are not ripped fully formed from wombs:
Shards penetrate, flesh is splintered, as unknown forms
Are coaxed with promises of eyes
To rest upon them; eyes to make them live
As something in this world. The artist offers, in return
A share of himself back down beneath,
Trading the simple physicality of a deformation,
Or the complex buckling of a broken psyche,
For the capture of a vision: a David or a St Teresa.
Ecstatic in his suffering, a man apart,
Standing, finally, in silent worship
Of miracles well won from simple rock.

I chipped away for many years, shaping myself.
Seeking out the curve of the right thing to do,
The soft arc of a listening ear.
Nicking at the tender hidden outline
Of the kindest word I could say.
Uncovering the firmest way to stand my ground.
I didn’t know any of it was in there.
It’s not so wrong to be satisfied with myself:
Wisdom is a hard work miracle,
Stuck down in dense stuff; waiting for the chisel;
Worth every delicate strike of the hammer.